


Hellfire

by justkatherinetheokay



Series: Anno Apocalypsi [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, Crossover, Gen, M/M, Set after season 7 of Buffy, it varies from character to character, major spoilers there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 66,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2216307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkatherinetheokay/pseuds/justkatherinetheokay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This work is set after the events of Season 7 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so, spoilers.<br/>Charles Xavier comes from a long line of Watchers. In 1995, he was eighteen and away at Oxford when his adoptive sister Raven, then the Slayer, and their father Brian, then her Watcher, were killed by a vampire, who then sired Raven and vanished with her to Europe. In Los Angeles, Buffy Summers was called as the next Slayer, and the rest is history.<br/>Once he finished his degrees Charles went looking for Raven, a quest that took years and spanned continents but ultimately came to nothing. After his mother, stepfather, and stepbrother were all killed in the explosion caused by the First Evil, Charles, now one of only a few Watchers left in the world, locked himself away in the Westchester mansion and welcomed the end of the world. Then it didn’t come.<br/>Now, in the aftermath of the Battle of the Hellmouth, thousands of girls have been called as Slayers. Among them is Jean Grey, who has spent the past year on the run from the Bringers who sought to end the Slayer line by killing all the Potentials in the world. But while the other Potentials are now safe from those who hunted them, Jean is now being hunted by other forces...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August | Uninvited Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rather harried-looking Rupert Giles standing on the front porch was not a welcome sight this morning. Any morning, really, before or ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god oh god oh god I'm actually doing this. Okay. (My notes for this fic, er, series, forecast it as being MASSIVE.)
> 
> Enjoy, I hope.

 

  


“I’m not here,” said Charles. “Come back later—or actually, don’t. At all.” He shut the heavy front door and moved to put up a glamour so he could retreat unbothered back into the gloom, but before he could summon enough power someone shoved the door open, knocking him over.

On his doorstep stood the last living Watcher, flanked by three much younger men who Charles didn’t recognize. The tallest was also the bulkiest, and evidently the one who had pushed his way in; the shortest still had a solid five inches on Charles, and he had to admit it was a little intimidating.

“Fine, then,” he snarled, picking himself up. “Why don’t you all just come on in?”

“That’s more like it,” said Giles, looking just shy of relieved. He offered a hand, which Charles ignored. “I can’t stay long,” he added as the group marched inside. “I must say, Charles, I’m a little surprised to see you walking. I had heard—”

“People hear a lot of things,” said Charles shortly. He was about to close the door when he realized there was another person a few steps behind the four, a red-haired girl of perhaps fifteen who carried a raggedy backpack and a worn suitcase. Those didn’t bode well.

She made her way in without a word, just a shy smile in his direction. All Charles could think was that at least _she_ was shorter than him.

“Well.” Giles looked around. “Bit dusty these days, isn’t it?”

“Maybe I like it that way,” Charles muttered. “Why are you here, Giles?”

“At this point in our lives I do think Rupert would be appropriate.” The older Watcher’s eyes were on the chandelier, and looked far away. “I need to talk to you.” Charles raised his eyebrows, and Giles shook himself out of it. “Oh, dear,” he said, “I haven’t introduced you. Charles Xavier, this is Logan—” the massive one—“Hank—” a pale, nerdy-looking fellow who couldn’t have been legal to drink—“and Erik.” The leather-jacketed man indicated by that name didn’t so much as look up.

“Pleasure, I’m sure,” said Charles doubtfully. “What is it you need to talk to me about?”

“Jean.” Giles beckoned to the girl, who came slowly over to them. “Charles, this is Jean Grey. She was called two months ago.”

“Faith Lehane’s dead?” Charles smiled, at least as much as he could. “Thank God.” Giles sighed and clasped the bridge of his nose.

“Good Lord,” he said, “you don’t—you don’t know. I would have thought you’d have felt it—”

“What,” said Charles dryly, “the world not ending? Hell of a plot twist, that. You know, this time I was actually hoping it might—”

“All the Potentials were called at once,” said Giles. That shut him up—well, struck him speechless. “The Slayer line of old has come to an end. This should explain everything.” He pulled a slightly crumpled envelope from his pocket. Charles accepted it doubtfully.

“So it’s more complicated than that?” he said. “Why am I asking? God, of course it is, with what I’ve heard about _your_ Slayer over the years.” Giles chuckled a little at that.

“Yes, she is rather a—oh, dear.” He looked at his watch and blanched. “I’ve got to run. Listen, you—” he turned to his companions—“explain anything I’ve left out of the letter, and keep her safe.” Hank smiled nervously, but Logan nodded with a look of determination.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, too,” he said, jerking a thumb in Erik’s direction. “I know your pals in L.A. said he’s trustworthy, but I don’t buy it.” Erik raised a single eyebrow.

“Just as his ‘pal’ in Tibet vouched for you, Howlett?” he said coolly, in an accent Charles couldn’t quite place, not that he cared enough to try.

“He’s got a good soul, Logan,” said Giles. Logan huffed.

“Right,” he said. “Still, I’ll keep him in line.”

“As if I’m the one in need of a _leash_ ,” said Erik pointedly.

“Yeah, lucky us you’ve already got one,” Logan shot back, and was met with dead, deadly silence.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Charles finally said, now he could get a word in edgewise, stepping between them. “They’re staying here?”

“You are to be Jean’s Watcher,” said Giles, raising his eyebrows.

“What? No!” He felt bad as soon as it was out, at the stricken look on the poor girl’s face, but pity wouldn’t magically make him a good Watcher. Hell, not even magic could magically make him a good Watcher. In his experience, it did pretty much the opposite.

“It’s not exactly your choice, Charles. You are one of very few trained Watchers left.”

“Yeah, a lot of good that training’s done me,” Charles snapped. “I’m not cut out to be a Watcher, Giles. I think you’re mistaken. Sorry. Find someone else.”

“Listen, you little shit—” Logan seized the front of his shirt. Perhaps stepping closer had been a poor decision. Jean gasped; everyone else just looked rather long-suffering. “There _is_ no one else. The Watchers’ Council blew up.”

“Yes,” said Charles as flatly as he could when he was presently being lifted very nearly off the ground by his collar, “yes, and it took the pitiful remains of my family with it, and not to speak ill of the dead, but good _fucking_ riddance—” Well, the bar had already been lowered for language, so what did it matter if he pushed it still lower? The huge man looked a little jarred by that, and a bit of the pressure on Charles’ throat was released, but he shook his head and retorted.

“Look, kid, the world didn’t end, okay? Get over it, and get with the program. This girl has a posse of vampires after her—”

“Ah, yes, because I know all about _posses_ of _vampires_ ,” Charles spat—

“Yeah, you know about this one,” said Logan darkly. Charles stared at him. _But it couldn’t be…_ “So _you_ —” With his free hand, the massive man started jabbing a finger into Charles’ chest for emphasis, “are going to _train_ her, and _we_ are here to _help_ you, and if need be, to _keep the both of you safe._ ” Finally he let Charles drop back to the floor, where he stumbled backwards into the banister.

“Thank you, Logan,” said Giles tiredly. “Now, I really must be going—”

“Giles, _wait_ —”

“Call me Rupert, Charles, really.”

“You can’t just—I’m not—”

“As acting Director, actually, I can,” said Giles. “Charles, I know you have more trauma in your past than most, but you’re, what, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-six,” Charles corrected grudgingly.

“And don’t you think twenty-six is a bit old for adolescent rebellion?”

“Oh, as if _you’re_ one to preach about that,” said Charles disgustedly. Giles sighed.

“There are four of us left, Charles,” he said. “Of those fully qualified for field duty? Four. And Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is a little busy recovering from a different not-apocalypse.”

“…Of course he is.” Charles looked around at the people who were evidently going to be his responsibility several minutes from now. “Giles, I’m barely a decade older than her. I can’t train a Slayer.”

“You can, and you will, because you must.” Giles looked him up and down. “I have no choice but to have faith in you, Charles Xavier. Best of luck. It’s a new age, this—this, post-apocalypse.”

“Anno apocalypsi?” Charles suggested sourly. Giles smiled faintly.

“There’s that Xavier wit,” he said. “I’ll check in on you sometime soon, I’m sure. Do try not to die.” Charles shook his hand reluctantly when it was offered.

“We’ll do our utmost.”

“How reassuring.” Giles looked at Logan. “Try not to kill him, would you? We do need him.”

“I’ll do my utmost,” Logan grumbled. That, Charles thought, was _not_ very reassuring.

“Same goes for Erik—we do _need_ him,” Giles added, indicating the man in question, who smiled at Logan with all his teeth. Something about the expression rang a bell, though Charles couldn’t place why.

“Bite me,” Logan snarled. Erik’s grin vanished.

“Shouldn’t we all be more concerned by your bite?” he said coldly. Giles sighed again, nodded to Charles, gave Jean a reassuring smile, and was out the door seemingly before Charles could move.

“What about my bite?” said Logan. “Bub, when they call her the _Slayer_ , they’re not talking about—”

“Wait,” said Charles, “what are you implying?” Erik and Logan froze. Charles looked from one to the other, then focused on Logan, examining him more closely. “He’s not…”

“A werewolf?” said Logan. “Believe it.” Charles stared at him. Then he glanced at Erik, who shrugged, and Hank, who looked profoundly uncomfortable, and Jean, whose nervous expression really hadn’t changed—and he sighed.

“All right. All of you, come—just come sit down.” Charles gave Logan a wide berth as he led them into the sitting room just off the front hall, where he sank onto a couch. His guests took other seats, Hank and Jean hesitant, Logan nonchalant, even smirking a little. Erik stayed in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching him with cool gray eyes. “All right,” said Charles again. “Um. I’m going to read Giles’ letter, and you are all going to sit and be quiet while I do.” Fingers shaking a little under their gazes, he opened the envelope, removed the single page it contained, and began to read.

 

_Charles,_

_I am sure you are aware of the events that have lately transpired across the globe, stemming from the actions of the First Evil—the rise of the Bringers, the gradual destruction of the Council, culminating in the explosions of three months ago in London, which unfortunately preceded the destruction of the Sunnydale Hellmouth and the calling of every Potential on the planet to their full power as Slayers. I know that you yourself lost family members in the Council disaster, and hope you will accept my most sympathetic condolences. There is not a one of us, however, who can afford to waste any more time grieving for the fallen. With this writing I, Rupert Edmund Giles of the Fairweather line, Acting Director of the Watchers’ Council, call you, Charles Francis Xavier of the Xavier line, to serve as Watcher to Jean Grey, Slayer, lately called._

_Jean is sixteen years old, born and raised in upstate New York. Her father, Professor John Grey, was an associate of the Watchers’ Council at the time of its destruction. He is an intelligent man in the most dangerous way—knowledgeable, but not always wise. In the name of keeping his daughter safe from the Bringers he removed her from Watcher oversight, and when this action proved foolish he panicked and made a deal with the demon Azazel, an associate of the notorious Hellfire Club, to protect her. The price was intended to be his own life. Unfortunately, Azazel had informed the vampire Shaw, a name I’m certain you will recall, of the venture, and when Jean was called along with the other Potentials Shaw decided he would rather take the opportunity to sire a slaypire to join his own little ‘family’. The Greys are now on the run, headed in another direction, and I have brought Jean to you._

_Believe me, I regret the necessity of this venture nearly as much as I am certain you will. I have no doubt that the circumstances alone are enough to dredge up a great deal of pain from your own past, and for that, Charles, I truly am sorry. Unfortunately, the Slayer organization has neither the time nor the resources to get Jean Grey to safety anywhere else but here. We had only a few hours’ head start on Shaw and his associates, and the Xavier mansion is the best-warded building for our purposes for a hundred miles around. At least for now, therefore, Jean will need to remain under your guardianship._

_The three men joining you are there for your protection and your assistance. Logan Howlett and Hank McCoy are werewolves, both known to me and trusted. Logan is in his thirties and fully in control of his powers, and is there both to help you train Jean and to protect her. Should the Hellfire Club somehow manage to get past the wards, look to him. Hank is eighteen, a teenaged genius not unlike yourself at that age. He is very knowledgeable in a wide range of subjects, and was on track to become a Watcher within a few years when he was bitten just two months ago; now he is under Logan’s tutelage, and may need yours as well. It is our hope that he can learn alongside Jean._

_Erik Lehnsherr is an expert on the Hellfire Club and vampires in general, having devoted much of his life to studying and tracking them. It is my belief, having spoken with him, that his knowledge of Shaw et. al. in fact exceeds your own. He and Logan are both aware of your personal history with some vampires connected to the group, and will support you through dealing with any repercussions._

_I wish you the best of luck in the days to come, and when it comes to your ability to deal with whatever might happen, I have faith in you._

_Rupert Giles._

 

Charles stared at the letter for about a minute more even once he was finished reading it. Then he set it aside and faced the group before him.

“Right,” he said. “Well. Now I know a few things about the lot of you, why don’t we go upstairs and see about choosing rooms? It seems you’ll all be here for a while.” At those words, Jean and Hank visibly relaxed. Logan shoved himself up from the couch again.

“Great,” he said, and strode out. “Upstairs?”

“Yes, um—” Charles waved in the direction of the stairs. “I’ll need to talk to each of you later, in turn, in—separately, I think, but for now let’s… focus on getting everyone settled.” The teenagers were off like shots, then, running up the stairs. Logan, evidently, was hauling all the luggage—at once.

As he moved to follow, Charles brushed past Erik, who had yet to move from the doorway. Once again he was struck by a strange twinge in the back of his memory.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You seem rather familiar. Have we by chance met before?” Erik’s eyes widened.

“I don’t believe so,” he replied stiffly. “I know you only by reputation.”

“Hmm.” Charles knew nothing but what Giles had put in the letter, and could not respond in kind. “Perhaps I’ve seen—a face like yours, in a crowd, or something.”

“A face in a crowd. That could be it.” Erik nodded.

“Well, regardless,” said Charles, mustering up all the polite manners he could, “it’s good to meet you, Erik.” He held out a hand.

“The pleasure is mine.” Erik clasped the proffered hand hesitantly and let go quickly.

“Well.” Charles forced a smile. “It seems the others have made their way upstairs. Shall we follow?” Without waiting for an answer he turned and started up the stairs. After a moment Erik joined him, long legs catching up quickly. He overtook him—then, at the second flight, he turned and went up the other way. When Charles looked back, he had vanished.

 

Upstairs was a bit pathetic, if Charles was perfectly honest—half the furniture still looked like Halloween ghosts, covered in white sheets, and most of the bedrooms needed to be dusted. Still, everyone managed to get things sorted within the hour, Jean taking a room near Charles’, Logan the one beside it, Hank the one across. Erik was to be found, after quite a bit of searching, having already unpacked his single thin valise in a sparse room at the other end of the house. Logan wanted him to come to the same wing as the others, but Charles shut him down—it didn’t matter.

“A man who seeks solitude is best left alone,” he told him. _If only I could be so lucky_ , he didn’t actually add, but Logan growled a little and Charles knew that what went unsaid had come across anyway. _Good_ , he thought nastily.

 

“Hank?” Charles peered in the door. The boy’s suitcase was spread out on the bed, and in spite of his overall annoyance with the day Charles had to smile: a few tightly-folded t-shirts and jeans took up only half of one side, leaving the rest full of neatly-stacked books. Those were evidently in the process of being carefully transferred, one volume at a time, to the bedroom’s built-in shelves.

“Hi.” In his hurry to stand to attention Hank dropped a rather heavy-looking grimoire on his toes. “Shit. Sorry—” he fumbled to pick it up. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to meet you in proper.” Charles extended a hand. Hank shook it. “Your reputation precedes you. In the letter,” he added, when Hank look confused. Charles cast around for something, anything, to say. Social interaction hadn’t been… habit… for quite a while now. “Did you enjoy your time at the Academy?”

“Right up to the full moon mission, yeah,” said Hank a little sourly, and Charles instantly regretted bringing it up.

“Do you still harbor the ambition, though?” he asked, as the only thing to do at this point seemed to be to press on. “To become a Watcher.” Hank looked at the floor, and Charles stepped a foot closer to catch the much taller man’s eye again.

“I’m not sure,” Hank muttered. “It’s…”

“Tainted?” Charles suggested. Hank nodded. “I understand completely. I lost any desire for the position years ago, myself, under—different circumstances, very different, in the face of tragedy. Yet,” he sighed, “here we stand.”

“I think—I think I might—” Hank gulped. “I loved learning, and I’d still like to serve the cause, but the thing is—werewolves don’t have a place with the Watchers. As lessons, maybe, but not as members.”

“Nah, the council…” Charles shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Giles brought you here, and he’s the one rebuilding the council. He’ll make a place for you.”

“So you are going to take us?” said Hank. “Us and—Jean. You’ll be her Watcher?”

“I don’t exactly have a choice,” said Charles. “You’re here, and there’s really nowhere else to take you.”

“Right. Sorry.” Hank winced. Charles sighed.

“I can… I’ll figure it out.” He looked up at Hank. “I had an education once, for all the good it’s done me. Whatever you still have to learn about being a Watcher—I can help.” He laughed without mirth. “I can’t promise I’ll teach you _well_ , but I can try.”

“Would you?”

“If it’s what you want.” Charles shrugged. Hank looked at the floor.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said quietly. “But—we’ll see.” When he looked up again, there was a new glint of fire to his eyes.

 

Logan Howlett had already proven an unpleasant piece of work and Charles had no desire to deal with him, but Erik was on the other end of the house and somehow he felt he probably ought to talk to Jean last, so he gritted his teeth and knocked on the open doorframe.

“Hey.” The big man seemed calmer than before, which admittedly wasn’t saying much. “Kids settling in all right?”

“Hank seems to be doing well,” said Charles. “I haven’t talked to Jean yet.”

“Kay.” Everything here was already put away, though looking around Charles saw only a large rucksack—Logan didn’t seem to have much in the way of possessions.

“So. You’re here for our protection,” he said, leaning on the doorframe. “From the Hellfire Club.”

“Among other things.” Logan crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ll also need help keeping Hank in check, at least at first, and it’s not just the Hellfire Club that’ll be after a Slayer. I’m here in case… anything goes wrong.”

“Right.” Charles frowned. “Where are you from? Giles said very little about you.”

“Cleveland,” said Logan shortly. “I’ve been on the road for the past couple years. Ran into some friends of the Slayer. Now I’m here.”

“… All right.” It seemed a very incomplete autobiography, but Charles couldn't really bring himself to care. Even if he did, he figured there would be time to learn more later.

“Old man said you’d have some idea how to deal with the full moons,” said Logan.

“Well.” Charles frowned. “We have a bunker…”

“Good.” Logan turned away. “You should get to know Jean,” he said gruffly. “Kid’s probably still pretty scared.”

“Right. I’ll talk to her soon.”

“They’re good kids,” said Logan. “Hank and Jean. They just have a lot of power and not much they know how to do with it.” Charles sighed.

“Then I guess it’s up to us to teach them.” _Joy,_ he added mentally. Probably the distaste came through in his expression, because Logan grimaced.

“Yeah,” he said. “This is going to go _great_.” Charles rolled his eyes.

“I’ll see you for dinner, Logan.” He shook his head. “God, I hope one of you knows how to cook. My stock of frozen pizzas won’t last long with five mouths to feed.” Logan snorted.

“Fantastic.”

“Later.” Charles walked off.

“Yeah, see you later, Chuck,” Logan muttered. Charles stopped short.

“ _What_ did you just call me?” In the same instant he turned on his heel to stare incredulously, Logan’s door slammed shut.

 

Erik’s door was shut at the other end of the house. For a few seconds Charles stared at it and considered not bothering. Instead he knocked.

“Come in.” When the door didn’t open of Erik’s volition, Charles turned the knob and stepped hesitantly inside. Erik had shed his leather jacket for only the turtleneck beneath it, and cut a dark figure standing by the window. “Your house is… nice,” he said.

“I’m glad you find it so,” said Charles. “I see you’ve settled in.”

“More or less.” Erik turned away from the window to face him. “I take it you’ve resigned yourself to your fate?”

“Oh, I did that long ago,” said Charles a little darkly. A slight quirk appeared at the corner of Erik’s lips. “This just… isn’t quite the fate I expected.”

“What was?” His gaze sharpened, became too piercing for Charles’ liking. He looked away.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does, if we’re here under your roof.” Charles looked up again. Erik’s raised eyebrows felt like a challenge.

“It was my impression, Mr. Lehnsherr,” said Charles coolly, “that you were here as my source, not my therapist, so I’ll thank you to leave the questioning to me.”

“Well, I’m certainly more qualified as the one than the other.” Erik’s smirk turned briefly to a grimace, then vanished entirely.

“Are you?” Charles crossed his arms over his chest, cocking his head to one side. “I know the letter said you’re an expert on the Hellfire Club.”

“I don’t call myself that, but I suppose it’s accurate,” said Erik. Something about his tone told Charles there was no boasting in the words, and a shiver ran down his spine. Somehow that cold objectivity made the man before him utterly terrifying. “I’ve spent my life—the last few years of it, at least—hunting the Hellfire Club, and in the process I’ve learned everything about them. Or, nearly.”

“So you know everything about the Hellfire Club,” said Charles, remembering the other thing Giles had written about Erik. “What do you know about _me_?”

“There I can hardly claim to know _everything_ ,” said Erik dryly. “But I know… what’s relevant.” _Oh._

“Giles told you about my sister, then.” Charles sighed. “I suppose that’s good. That you know. Especially if you’re going to advise me how to deal with this.” Erik didn’t speak, but nodded stiffly. The silence felt charged and awkward, now it was out there. “What about you?” said Charles, desperate to turn it around. “Any demons in Erik Lehnsherr’s past?” Erik laughed, a sharp, mirthless _ha_.

“There’s a reason I’ve poured my soul into hunting the Hellfire Club, Xavier,” he said. “Shaw and his associates killed my family. I think that’s a situation you can understand.” He turned back to the window.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Charles after a moment. “It is indeed a situation, as you say, that we seem to have in common.”

“And I’m sorry for yours,” Erik replied. “All of them.”

 

When Charles went looking for her, Jean Grey was not in her room. Nor was she downstairs. A glance out the window revealed her shuffling along the gravel path outside, kicking at the rocks. He went out to join her.

They fell into step, walking in silence for a few minutes, listening only to the sound of the gravel crunching beneath their feet. It was a terribly grey day, for August, and Charles almost wished he had thought to grab a coat.

“You don’t want me here,” said Jean, finally, her young voice loud in the silence. Charles sighed.

“What I _want_ doesn’t matter much at this point.” Maybe not the most diplomatic thing to say, but she deserved the truth. It was a bit late for anything else—this girl had been shoved unceremoniously into adulthood even younger than he had. “You’ve got to be trained. I don’t have much of a choice.”

“You do too.” Jean kept her eyes on the ground. “You don’t have to train me if you don’t want to. I mean, we have them for protection.” She jerked her head toward the house, clearly indicating the other guests. “We’ll be fine.” Charles glanced at her sidelong, frowning.

“I’ve spoken to all of them,” he said slowly, “and while Erik may be of some help where protection is concerned, I think Logan will be a bit more concerned with helping Hank, who I think needs quite as much training as you clearly do.” Jean shrugged, neck receding into her shoulders as she shoved her hands into her pocket. “I’m willing to train you,” Charles told her.

“Willing and wanting aren’t the same thing.” Jean shuffled nervously. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to.”

“Do _you_ want me to train you?” Charles asked. Jean didn’t look up, but kicked at the gravel a bit more violently than before. “Jean. Look at me.” Finally she did, and in her eyes he saw only fear.

“I don’t want to be the Slayer,” spilled from her mouth, and she looked horrified to have admitted it. “I never—I never did. I mean, I had such a small chance of being called, I thought—and Dad was protecting me from the Bringers—and now I _am_ the Slayer, or, or _a_ Slayer, I guess, and that’s just put everyone in more trouble, and now I’m a burden on you, too—”

“Oh, dear.” Charles sighed and stopped dead on the path, raking a hand through his hair. “Look. I don’t want to be a Watcher, either, haven’t for a long time, and for—not dissimilar reasons, I think. Terrible things happened to my family because of who we were, and the whole thing just seemed like a lot of pain for very little good to come of it. But Jean, what’s happened has happened, and I think you—and I, believe me, I’m still not totally satisfied with this, far from it—but we’re just going to have to take things as they come.” He paused, searching for her reaction. She still looked unconvinced, so Charles tried again. 

“Listen, you’re a Slayer now, full strength, and a Slayer in danger at that: it only makes sense that you need to be trained to use your new gifts. I, at my end, am one of the only fully-qualified Watchers on the planet. I may not care much for duty, but I’m a firm believer in life’s-what-you-make-it, and what you make of it depends on what life throws at you to begin with. One way or another, I’ve always forced myself to deal with it. Maybe I can deal with things a little more productively this time around.” When he checked again, Jean was flexing her fingers experimentally, bouncing on her toes, examining the tendons in her hand with some curiosity. He wondered if she had had time yet to consider what it meant, or how it felt, to have Slayer powers. Perhaps that would make the difference. “So, what do you say, Jean Grey? Will you join me in this godforsaken endeavour?” A slow smile was spreading across Jean’s face. She looked up at him.

“Endeavour? That’s a big word.” She smirked slightly. “Sure, _Professor._ ”

“Oh—” Charles rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s a better nickname than _Chuck_ —wait, did you just agree?”

“Sure.” The girl shrugged. “I—I guess it can’t hurt to try.”

 

Erik was up at midnight, looking over 2001 notes—Argentina, that jaunt had been awfully ironic of “Schmidt,” hadn’t it—when his bedroom door creaked open. Logan leaned on the doorframe, regarding him mutinously.

“Did you want something?” Erik asked after a minute passed and the werewolf in his peripheral vision still hadn’t moved.

“Just wanted to make sure we’re clear on this, Lehnsherr,” said Logan. “I don’t like you. I don’t trust you, or your intentions in being here, and if you so much as look at any of them the wrong way—let’s just say I know every way there is to get rid of you.”

“That was all quite clear already,” said Erik, finally looking up to fix him with an unperturbed gaze. “Anything else?”

“That’s all for now.” Logan shrugged. “Just remember, I know everything about your past, and believe me, bub, it doesn’t paint a very positive picture. So you’d better keep well in line, if you value—being here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Erik replied. “After all, you probably are the only one in the house who stands a chance against me, at present. You might still be even after Jean’s trained up. I don’t have a particularly clear idea of her abilities, yet.”

“And you do know an awful lot about Slayers,” said Logan pointedly. Erik rolled his eyes.

“Regardless, I’m sure you’re right, and I have reason to fear you.”

“I expect we’ll find out someday,” Logan growled. Erik sighed.

“Of course you do.” He shook his head. “We’ll see, Howlett.”

“That we will, _Eisenhardt_.” Erik went still where he sat, even as his door closed and Logan’s footsteps retreated toward the other wing. He remained so for several minutes, perhaps, before the echo of the name faded from his ears and he relaxed back against his headboard.

“We’ll see, indeed,” he muttered, and turned back to his notes.

 

At the crest of a small hill on the edge of the grounds, Shaw regarded the house at a distance and smiled. Emma drew up beside him, tucked her hand into his elbow, and watched the last window go dark, her contemplative expression unchanging.

They couldn't get past the wards yet—some Xavier must have had a lot of power, sometime long ago, if the protections on the house were this strong—but they would find a way soon. And then... then things would get interesting.

 


	2. September | Beastly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inhabitants of the Xavier mansion deal with the first full moon since the two werewolves arrived.

  


The waxing moon was golden with the impending arrival of autumn as it rose over Westchester, providing a lovely view between trees through the bay windows at the end of the house.

“All right,” said Mr. Xavier, leading Jean’s three companions down the basement stairs. She trailed a few steps behind as usual, looking around, trying to take everything in. Learn constant vigilance, he had told her—always be alert to your surroundings. Make it second nature. In the two weeks she had been here, that and a dull, heavy old book titled only _Vampyr_ were the only work he had given her. Given his reluctance, and her own, this wasn’t surprising at all. Didn’t make it any less of a disappointment.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Xavier beckoned Logan over to help shove open a pair of heavy double doors that looked to be made of solid steel. “Down here is the bunker, is where we’ll be shutting the two of you—” Logan and Hank, pointed out in turn—“tomorrow night.”

“Both of us together?” Hank asked worriedly. “How do you know we won’t—you know—”

“Kill each other?” Xavier finished for him. The young werewolf nodded. “Logan tells me he has his ways around that, ah, issue.”

“Okay.” Hank didn’t look at all reassured. “So he won’t kill me. What if I kill him?” Logan snorted. “It’s not funny!”

“I’d love to see you try, kid.”

“And I’d just as soon no one attacked anyone, but that never seems to turn out, does it?” The Watcher rolled his eyes. “This is a test run. If anything goes wrong, we’ll step in and then adjust for next month.”

As Xavier and Logan busied themselves discussing the room’s setup and controls, while Erik leaned against the wall looking mulish and bored as usual, Jean examined the bunker. After all, it was her surroundings at the moment. It was all concrete and tile, and such a long room that she could barely see what was at the other end. She was considering taking a walk down there—even if Xavier would mind, it wasn’t like he was going to notice—when Hank tapped her shoulder and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“What?”

“I was just wondering if you needed any help with your reading,” he said. “The grimoire Mr. Xavier gave you? It’s standard reading at the Academy. Er—it was.” His face fell slightly. “Point is, I had to read the whole thing when I was—younger than you are now, actually—and if you need anything clarified—” Jean did need help, if she was completely honest—the book was written in Middle English or something, and most of what it talked about made no sense at all to a girl who hadn’t even known demons and stuff existed until very, very recently—but some part of her shied away.

“Um—no, thanks,” she said out loud, as politely as she could. “I think I’m getting it just fine on my own.” She tried to be subtle about stepping away, but Hank’s face fell a little.

“O-okay.” He shrugged. “I just—if you ever need any—extra explanation.”

“Yeah.” She looked at the floor for long enough that when she looked back up, he had turned away. Jean breathed a sigh of relief.

“Right, that’s settled.” Xavier sighed, looked around at the bunker, and flicked out the lights before he and Logan shut the enormous doors again. “Hank, Logan can explain the plan to you. Now, I’m going to bed, where I expect not to be disturbed until tomorrow. The rest of you can do whatever you want. Don’t destroy anything.” He took the stairs two at a time ahead of them, all the way up. Jean looked at the three men who had come with her. None of them seemed to have any answers: Hank shrugged and looked away, Logan rolled his eyes, and Erik was already at the top of the first flight of stairs, vanishing up into his own wing. Jean sighed.

Being a Slayer was great. Just _great_.

  


  


“…So that’s how it’ll work,” Logan finished. “Should go off without a hitch, other than the hangovers.” Hank winced. Both of his full moons so far had been _terrible_. The older werewolf frowned at him. “You okay, kid?”

“I’m fine.”

“Cause—not that you don’t _usually_ seem down—but you seem especially down tonight.” Logan looked at him closely. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Hank shook his head. Logan raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah. Real convincing. _What’s up_?”

“It’s… it’s just—I don’t know.” Hank sighed.

“Is Lehnsherr giving you trouble?” Logan growled. Hank blinked.

“No—what? Of course not.”

“Huh.”

“I don’t know why you hate him so much, Logan, he seems like a pretty decent guy to me. Little prickly, maybe, but still politer than Xavier half the time.”

“Yeah, he would,” said Logan darkly. Hank rolled his eyes.

“No, no, it’s… Jean.”

“Ah.” Logan’s scowl turned into a knowing smirk. “Girl problems.”

“What? No!” Hank resisted the urge to facepalm. “Not that at all. She’s _scared_ of me.”

“Huh.” Logan shrugged. “She’ll get over it. Most people do eventually.”

“Doesn’t it bother you, though?”

“Eh. It used to. You learn not to care after a while.”

“I—I just—” Hank stopped, unsure how to put his feelings into words. He had never been good at it to begin with, and since life got—complicated—everything within it was just that much harder to handle. “I figure, she’s a Slayer, I—was learning to be a Watcher—the only way I’ll ever be able to be one is if a Slayer can trust me, right?” Logan’s face softened ever so slightly, not that Hank had thought it possible at all.

“There are a ton of Slayers out there now, bub,” the big werewolf said almost gently. “This one’s Xavier’s to train. Your time will come later.”

“Whatever.” Hank shook his head. “We’re the only teenagers here, you know? I wouldn’t mind a friend.”

“Well, you always got me.” Logan clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture clearly meant to be encouraging. “Look, kid, get a good night’s sleep, would you? You’ll be glad you did.”

“Yeah.” Hank looked at the floor as Logan sauntered off.

Tomorrow would be a long day; the last day of horrible anticipation before the transformation hit was always even worse than the full moon itself. That anxiety was setting in even now, and once Hank fell into a bed that still didn’t feel like his own yet he lay curled up wide awake for a very long time, eyes irritated by half-formed tears, staring out at the moon, before finally, _finally_ , he fell asleep.

 

The Xavier family armory was accessible through a hidden door in the library. It swung open before them when the right grimoire was removed, triggering the latch, and Charles ignored Logan’s eyeroll and mutter of _rich people_ as he led the way inside.

Either Kurt had never found the room, or had simply ignored it; Charles had never been sure. All he knew was the room had appeared untouched the last time he opened it, and untouched the five years since. That goddamned crossbow—such a little thing, pistol-like—was still a little lopsided in its case on the wall. He reached out and righted it absently as he looked around, taking it in. Everything really was just as he remembered it.

The armory was about the size of a walk-in closet. Weapons hung on nearly every surface imaginable. A trunk full of stakes sat open against the far wall beneath his father’s broadsword and Raven’s old throwing knives. Logan picked one up and tossed it experimentally from hand-to-hand. Erik hadn’t moved from the doorway.

“Do you mind?”said Charles. “I’d rather like to close the door.” The tall man stepped aside in one fluid movement, and Charles pulled the false bookcase back to shutter them in. For an instant the armory was plunged into darkness; then the fluorescent overhead lights flickered on. As a child Charles had always found their blue glow rather disappointing—they ruined the otherwise spooky mood—but right now he didn’t particularly care.

“Whoa.” Logan had moved on to examining a set of brass knuckles. “Interesting mix of stuff you got here, Chuck.”

“Quite the collection,” Erik agreed softly, running slim fingers over the dull edge of a cutlass.

“My father’s life’s work,” Charles replied. Erik recoiled, looking supremely guilty—“oh, I don’t care,” Charles added quickly, “handle whatever you’d like. We always did. Weapons were made to be used.”

“I dunno about that. Some of this stuff looks pretty old,” said Logan dubiously, still fiddling absentmindedly with the brass knuckles, his eyes on a longbow. “Is this—?”

“The Barton Bow, yeah.” Charles nodded. “As Erik said, my father put together quite a collection.”

“Rich people,” Logan said again, this time more awed than disgusted.

“Impressive.” Erik looked around at the armaments as if seeing them in a new light.

“Whatever. We should find that tranquilizer gun,” said Logan. “Just in case.” Brass knuckles on, he aimed an experimental punch in the general direction of the back wall. The instant the motion hit full extension, three long blades burst from between the knuckles with an awful metallic screech. Charles jumped almost a foot in the air. “ _Whoa_.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Charles sighed. “Put them down, Logan.”

“Fine. But these are _awesome_.”

“All right, then keep them. But we need to find the tranquilizer,” Charles insisted, irritation level rising fast. “The moon will be rising soon, and we want to give you and Hank ample time to get adjusted to the bunker.”

“Is this it?” Erik, not shaken a bit, indicated a slim gun mounted above the crossbow. Charles had been deliberately avoiding looking that way, and so had missed it.

“Yes, there.” Charles turned to find that the taller man had already taken it down to examine it. “Careful with that,” he said. “Don’t want you shooting anyone by accident.” He wasn’t sure himself whether he was joking or not, and the words came out accordingly weak. Erik looked up at him, a single eyebrow raised.

“No, indeed.” He handed Charles the gun. “Perhaps you ought to take it.”

“Fine.” Charles gave the armory a last look over. “Logan, why don’t you grab that box of stakes? We may be glad to have them accessible sooner or later, with a Slayer back in the house.”

“No kidding,” said Logan, sharing a dark look with Erik, and hefted the small trunk in his arms. Charles ushered the other men out and locked the hidden door behind them as he followed. This night was already far too long for his liking.

 

“Mr. Xavier—”

“Call me Charles. Really. I don’t care for stupid conventions.”

“O—okay.” Hank was easily six inches taller than the Watcher, but still he had to jog to keep up with his quick steps as the faint late-afternoon light, filtering through filthy windows and dusty curtains, vanished when the basement door swung shut behind them. That he could already feel the faint nausea he associated with transformation really didn’t help. “Charles. Um, I was just wondering—I know when I got here you said I should consider whether I still want to pursue Watcher training, and that you’d be willing to teach me if so.”

“And?”

“And. Um. I think—well, I think—yes, I do want to try, and so I was thinking maybe if you could somehow, I don’t know, coordinate training me with training Jean—”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Charles distractedly as they swung around the first basement landing to where the stairs became stone on the way down to the bunker. “Look, Hank, let’s get through this full moon first? We can talk about it after.”

“I—yeah. Okay. That makes sense.” The anxiety was rising with bile in his throat, anyway. Moonrise was _soon._

They reached the bunker. Looking at it now, it seemed substantially smaller than it had when they had looked at it before—but at least it was bigger than the cages where Hank had spent the other two full moons.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Logan rumbled from behind him, clapping him on the shoulder with such force that Hank stumbled a little as the big werewolf strode past him toward the center of the room, where a large gated grate divided it in two. “You two gonna go back upstairs?” _Two?_ Hank turned to see that Erik was standing, impassive, at the bottom of the stairs. “Kay.” He started on his shirt buttons. “Hank, get over here.” It occurred to Hank as he walked automatically to the grate that his extremities were going cold and numb as all feeling knotted in his stomach. This, too, he associated with the transformation, though he wasn’t sure now if it wasn’t just something wrong with him. If Logan felt it, he hid it well.

He hid himself behind Logan’s larger, broader frame to take his clothes off, then curled up in the farthest corner to await moonrise. It would be soon. His teeth were already rattling. The twisting filled his entire torso. It was all he could do not to writhe and scream. Every sense heightened during the transformation, he had found, for the last few seconds he had human senses at all, and the overhead lights, dim though they were, felt too bright even with his eyes screwed shut, and the moldy smell in the stone billowed around him, and the stone floor was rough and cold on his skin, and even burgeoning fur didn’t help—made it worse, really, as his follicles opened up against the rock. Fingernails bled in becoming claws, the tailbone was a sudden awful flash of fire and cracking, and when he opened his eyes he could see clear to the end of the room in the bright light—Erik looked unfettered as usual, but Charles actually looked frightened.

 _No more than I am,_ Hank thought, his last human thought for the night, and god he wished they would stop _looking_ at him—

 

The wolf that had been Logan—surprisingly small considering the man’s human stature—was still curled up on the floor, to all appearances as peaceful as advertised. Meanwhile, the enormous wolf that had been Hank charged the grate and flung himself violently against it with a furious howl. The metal shuddered, and so did Charles. To his surprise, Erik patted his shoulder in an unexpected and rather awkward gesture of comfort.

“There’s always the tranquilizer gun,” he said, sounding almost amused. That was more encouraging than it probably should have been, considering Charles was reasonably certain he was being mocked—but the mockery was gentle, and he didn’t really mind.

“Yes,” he finally managed, as Hank rattled the grate again and howled more plaintively. “Yes. There is. All right.” His limbs came unfrozen and he looked around. “Well. Seems we’ll be down here for a while. Um, all night, in fact. What shall we do?”

“I thought I’d read,” said Erik, holding up an anonymous black-bound book. “Unless you desired something more actively companionable.”

“No, that’s—fine.” Charles shrugged. “Do you mind watching them alone for a few minutes? I think I’ll go make a cup of nice strong tea. Keep me awake.” There was some other part to propriety here. He frowned for a moment until it dawned on him. “…Would you like some?”

“Tea would be great, thanks.” Erik smiled stiffly for a moment before he sank down to the floor in one fluid movement and opened his book, setting the tranquilizer gun within arm’s reach off to the side. Charles blinked himself out of staring and started back up the stairs.

In the kitchen he was rather surprised to find Jean at the counter spreading peanut butter methodically over a slice of bread. For the first time it occurred to Charles to wonder who had bought groceries, and when. At least he knew where to find tea. The box was a bit dusty, but the leaves would do.

When he looked up again a few minutes later, Jean was still spreading the peanut butter. Charles frowned.

“Are you all right?” The Slayer jumped.

“I—yes. Fine.” She seemed to realize what she was doing, and turned to jam. When he glanced closer at her expression, she looked terribly shaken.

“Are you sure?” Charles reached out to set a hand on her arm, but reconsidered it and drew back at the last second. “Um—did you hear the howling?” Jean winced, and nodded wordlessly. “Oh, dear. There’s nothing to worry about, you know. They’re locked up quite well, and even if they did get out—which they _won’t,_ really, I promise—there’s always me and Erik, and some tranquilizer darts.”

“Right,” said Jean hoarsely. “But there’s not those things—outside. Well, tranquilizer darts, maybe, but—” she was cut off by another howl, remarkably loud for the two floors between them and the werewolves. Jean shuddered.

“Outside?” Charles leaned back on the counter beside her, examining the young face critically. “Is the book scaring you? It’s not meant to.” Jean shrugged. “Are you getting through it all right?”

“Yeah.” She cut a neat, sharp slice diagonally across the sandwich and stood on her toes to find a plate in the cupboard. Now Charles wondered who had been doing the dishes. He rarely ate with the rest of them, and besides, his diet had been as informal as a university student’s for quite a while now. The last he’d known, the flatware his mother left behind was still gathering dust just like everything else in this godforsaken house. “Yeah. It’s fine,” Jean repeated. “I’m going to go back to it now.”

“All right. See you in the morning.” Charles looked at the floor as she went. Then the kettle whistled, and he went about preparing the tea. Waiting for it to steep, he supposed he ought to follow Erik’s example and find something reasonably productive to do with the all-nighter facing them.

None of the musty books in his father’s old study looked interesting, and half of everything was covered in cobwebs anyway. He had no desire to go as far as the library—that would take too long, and it would be too tempting to just get lost in there rather than return to the cold, unwelcoming, werewolf-infested bunker. Then his eyes alit on the dusty chess set still sitting half-played on the coffee table.

A white pawn appeared to have rolled under the couch, and Charles had very little desire to go sticking his hand into that veritable landfill, so he decided they’d just have to suck it up and make do without. He was in the midst of gathering the pieces up when he realized their significance.

The first care package Brian Xavier sent his son when he went overseas had included a travel chess set and a postcard with only a pair of matched letters and numbers written on it. They had played plenty when Charles was younger—twelve or so—but as the years marched steadily towards the day Raven would be old enough to be called, his father’s attention was increasingly directed towards training the young Potential he had been assigned to, the little girl informally adopted into the Watcher’s family when her destiny first became clear at seven.

Now they picked up the game again as a way to keep in touch. Sharon sent long, sappy letters about how very terribly she missed her precious baby; Brian sent _your move_. Some days Charles appreciated it more. By the time he was nearly eighteen and starting his second year as the genius child at Oxford, they had played four games through the mail and stood tied, two to two. This was the game left in progress the day the vampire came, the day Charles got the phone call he had been raised to spend his life expecting. Dreading.

He ignored all that—he was very good at ignoring all that—and continued packing it up. By the time he returned to the kitchen, the tea was as dark as the sky outside. A reflection of the full moon through the window quavered in the pot until the lid went on and Charles set everything on a tray to carry downstairs.

Halfway down a much lower howl, more haunting for it—Logan—made him jump and nearly sent everything flying. He caught himself. _Well done, Charles_.

“Anything to report?”

“He seems to have calmed down,” said Erik without looking up. Both the werewolves were curled up on opposite ends of the enclosure floor. Slowly, as quietly as he could, Charles set down the chess set and tea tray. Now Erik glanced away from his book. “Oh, thank you.” The Hank wolf growled a little, raising his snout from his paws to bare his teeth in their direction, and they both jumped, but he didn’t move any more than that for the moment. Erik accepted a cup of tea gladly, and nodded at the chess set under Charles’ arm. “What’s that?”

“Companionship that would require a bit more activity,” said Charles, easing himself down to sit against the wall. It was nice to be off his feet. “In case you get tired of reading.”

“Ah.” To Charles’ surprise, Erik set his book aside then and moved to sit closer. “May I?”

“Go ahead.” Charles watched as Erik opened the board and began to set up the pieces with quick, deft hands. “This was rather a shot in the dark on my part. I didn’t know you played.”

“My mother taught me when I was young,” said Erik. “I still play whenever I can.”

“Do you?” Charles frowned. “You may have a leg up on me, then. It’s been a while since I’ve played.”

“I’ll go easy on you.” Erik smiled, perhaps the first genuinely cheerful expression Charles had seen from him. Somehow it was still a little terrifying. Something about the teeth. “That is, if I can count correctly. Are you missing a pawn?”

“Oh—yes—here.” Charles plucked a sugar cube from the tea tray and set it in the empty space before him. Kind of Erik, to give him that small advantage.

“Whatever works.” Erik sat back. “Well? You make the first move.”

 

Jean sat on her bed, emptied plate shoved to the end, struggling once again with the text. Contrary to the title, she had yet to see more than a passing mention of vampires; the grimoire was like an encyclopedia of all things weird and boring, and it was alphabetical. Currently she was being bored out of her skull by banshees. She flipped through several pages. Bogeys. Boggarts. Those were two different things? _Ugh._ Jean shut the book and dropped it pointedly off the side of her bed. It hit the thick, ornate carpet with a satisfying _thud_ and a slight cloud of dust.

It was getting late. She might as well sleep.

Five minutes after she turned off her bedside lamp, another bone-chilling howl echoed up through the floor. Jean shuddered, curling her limbs in tighter on herself, and pressed her pillow against her ears. It did nothing to drown out the next, nor to stifle the creepy feeling haunting her spine. She sat up, glared at the full moon outside the window, and turned the light back on.

Yeah, there was no way she was sleeping tonight, she decided on the third howl. Not yet, anyway.

They had left the house so quickly that Jean had very few of her own possessions with her—no books, no games. The grimoire on the floor was the only source of entertainment available.

Xavier had never said she had to read it in _order_. She hefted the enormous brick of a book back up and opened it to a place near the back. The page numbers neared the seven-hundreds with the W’s. It didn’t take her long to find _Were-Wolf_ heading a page, complete with a da Vinci-like anatomical diagram. Hiding herself comfortingly under the heavy covers, Jean settled in to read.

 _The Were-Wolf (from the Old English_ wer _, man, and _wulf_ , beast) is a Shifter of Form known the world over. In Greece, from whence come the earliest tales of this Beast, he is called the Lycanthropos; in Spain, the Hombre Lobo; in Russia the Vurdalak. In this age, France, where he is known as Loup-Garou, has been in particular terrorized by this Beast. _

_The Were-Wolf is often difficult to know from a normal man, as he wears the face of one for most of the moon’s cycle. But under the light of the full moon, and the light of the moon preceding, and the light of the moon following, he takes the form of a fiendish demon-wolf. This aspect of the Were-Wolf has been known to humans since the time of the Ancients; Petronius, Courtier to Nero, wrote of a transformation at the full moon in the Year of Our Lord 60._

_Only to the Pagan Irish is the Were-Wolf, there called Faoladh, other than a Monster of the most fearsome order. The Faoladh is a figure of protection…_

 

Charles woke to blinding lights and pain everywhere, particularly in his leg, where someone appeared to be kicking him. He edged away and sat up slowly, groaning. It wasn’t pain—it was soreness. Everything was very stiff.

“Oh, you think _you’re_ in pain.” Logan snorted. “That’s what you get for falling asleep on a stone floor. Thought Watchers were supposed to _watch_.”

“No, _you_ ,” Charles mumbled, then realized what a terrible comeback that was. “What time is it?”

“Past moonset. God knows I don’t have a watch.” Logan kicked at his calf one last time for good measure before he stomped off up the stairs.

“It’s about seven,” said Erik. He looked completely awake, damn him, clear-eyed and unrumpled against the wall. The tea tray was gone, the chess set neatly put away.

“Mmph.” Charles blinked his way to normal vision. “Everything go all right?”

“Obviously,” said Erik dryly. “Everything was fine. Hank’s already gone up to bed.” Charles frowned.

“Were you awake all night?”

“It wasn’t a problem.”

“You should have—coffee, or something.”

“I was just about to head up for breakfast, actually.” Erik stood and offered him a hand. Charles took it, and let the taller man pull him to standing.

“Oof.” There was a brief moment of terror as Charles’ legs nearly gave out beneath him, but Erik caught his shoulder and the magic fell back into place and everything was fine, aside from the stiffness and soreness he had already noted. He wouldn’t have thought twenty-six was too old to sleep on a hard surface, but his back suggested otherwise. Then again, his back was hardly the average twenty-six-year-old’s.

Upstairs, Charles collapsed into a chair, groaning, and peered past the yellowed curtains in the nook—or maybe they had been yellow originally, he was never sure anymore—to see that the sun was well up over the grounds. Still exhausted, he fell into a bit of an empty reverie, looking out. He might well have fallen back asleep, there at the kitchen table, but then the smell of coffee hit his nose, followed seconds later by bacon. He looked up in surprise to see that in the time he had been sitting there like a useless lump, Erik had made breakfast.

“Did _you_ get the groceries?” Charles asked. Somehow, in considering it before, Erik was the last person he would have expected, but he nodded stiffly. Now Charles felt even more useless, and it doubled still as a plate was set before him and Erik took the opposite seat with only a cup of coffee. “…Oh. Thanks. Um, didn’t you make any for yourself?”

“Jewish,” was the only response he got to that. Charles blinked.

“Oh. All right. I didn’t know that.” He regarded Erik curiously. “I don’t know very much about you, actually.”

“Eat.” Erik gestured with his coffee in the direction of the food. Charles obeyed. “There’s not much to know,” the other man added after a moment, quieter. “I’ve been very single-minded for a very long time.”

“Well, in the past twelve or so hours I’ve learned you play chess and you’re Jewish,” said Charles once his mouth was empty again. “That’s something to know. Surely there’s more.” Erik shrugged.

“Probably. What is there to know about you, Xavier?”

“Well, for one, I _really_ wish everyone would just call me Charles.” That got a surprised laugh.

“Fine, _Charles_. I don’t know much about you, either.”

“Like you said of yourself, there’s not much to know, for… about the same reasons.” Charles smiled without mirth. “I’ve spent a lot of my life just as single-minded, in about the exact same way.”

“Hunting the vampire who killed your sister.” Erik looked down into his half-emptied coffee mug.

“Hunting her, too,” Charles said after a moment. “He didn’t just kill her, you know. He turned her.”

“I do know,” said Erik, but then they were interrupted by Jean shuffling into the kitchen, looking thoroughly exhausted. She padded over to the coffeepot and examined it before opening a cupboard, pulling out what was probably the largest mug in the kitchen, and filling it nearly to brimming.

“Aren’t you a little young to need that much coffee in the morning?”said Charles doubtfully. Jean sat down at his left hand and drank deep without response. Finally she shook her head.

“I… ’s up all night.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Werewolves?”

“Book.” She smiled wanly. “Doing my homework, Professor.”

“Well, good,” said Charles. “The book and the ability to stay up all night should both serve you well.”

“Mmhmm.” As far as Charles could tell, the Slayer had drunk the coffee in no more than three large gulps. “Don’t want them to, though,” Jean added then.

“…What?”

“I’ve learned a lot from the book,” she said. “Mostly, that I don’t want to be a Slayer.”

“Did it scare you that much?” Charles frowned. “It’s not supposed to.”

“Then clearly I’m not cut out for the job in the first place,” said Jean. “And you don’t want to be a Watcher, so it works out, right?” She stood again, to set the mug in the sink. “Think I’ll go outside. Haven’t done that in a while.” And she vanished again. Charles stared after her.

“Well,” he said, when he could collect himself, “she’s not wrong.”

“What—? Yes, she absolutely is,” said Erik. “She doesn’t get to decide whether to be a Slayer. It’s her destiny.”

“Oh, no, she’s dead wrong about that,” Charles agreed. “But it’s not like I’m in a place to do anything about it. She’s right: I _don’t_ want to be a Watcher, and I can hardly force her to be anything she doesn’t want to be. I’d be a hypocrite.”

“Forgive me,” said Erik dryly, “I’m not necessarily the most knowledgeable of people when it comes to the Slayer organization—but isn’t it your destiny too?”

“Perhaps.” Charles pushes his plate away, then his chair, and stood. “Here’s a thing to know about me, though: I don’t give a damn.” He walked away, leaving Erik at the table staring contemplatively into his coffee again.

 

The grounds surrounding the mansion were even more vast than Jean had thought. The first week she was here Xavier had explained that the property was bordered by a tall iron fence, into which were bound all the warding spells the Council could muster, essentially extending the natural protections of a dwelling out to the property line; consequently, she and Hank (and Logan and Erik, but he wasn’t as concerned about them) were free to roam, as long as they didn’t go beyond it.

She drew near it now. The black metal was stark and haunted-looking, just like… well, pretty much the rest of the property, from the house to most of the people in it. Jean walked along the property line until the overgrown lawn became overgrown woods. Somehow the close-set trees felt friendlier than any other part of the grounds had so far. It seemed like the kind of place where benevolent fairies might live—no werewolves or vampires or anything of the sort.

Eventually the fence line neared the road, and shortly thereafter she came to the main gates with their imposing lines and central crest. The encircled X. The property, Giles had explained when they arrived, was officially owned by the Watchers’ Council, but it had been more or less exclusively used and inhabited by the Xavier line since its purchase and enchantment a century or so ago. Jean glanced up the driveway, considered walking that way, and decided not to. She didn’t especially want to go back to the house yet; she had no desire to face whatever consequences might now be awaiting her there.

Instead she continued through the woods, running her hand along the tall bars of the fence, enjoying the faint shock of magic that ran through her occasionally. Abruptly, the woods ended again, giving way to cleaner grass than before and, right there on the other side of a small, unmarked gate, the most haunted of things that could have appeared: a graveyard.

The little grouping of hillocks was astoundingly unkempt, with moss overgrowing crumbling stone crosses and sarcophagi. A few modern, rounded headstones, shiny and new in contrast with the crosses, stood a bit nearer, though even their inscriptions were illegible from this distance. The cemetery was backed by a low mausoleum, itself overhung by an enormous willow.

Jean stood and took it all in for a few moments. The longer she stood there, fingers curled around the slim bars of the low gate, the more she began to feel, creeping up her spine, as if she was being watched—like the gravestones had eyes. Eventually it became too much to bear. She turned and ran, as fast as she could, back in the direction of the house.

Glancing over her shoulder as she went, Jean could have sworn she saw a pale, almost radiant figure standing in the shadows of the crypt. When she looked back there was only the graveyard. She shuddered and ran a little faster.

 

Hank woke in the middle of the afternoon with a gummy taste in his mouth and a dull ache still below the nape of his neck. The hangover didn’t go away _that_ easily, he knew that full well, but still a part of him had hoped.

“Good. You’re up.” And apparently Logan was here. Great. Hank pushed himself halfway to sitting, leaning on his elbows as the older werewolf threw opened his bedroom curtains with a sharp jerk, flooding the room with light. “This is why you should learn to put the wolf to sleep. You’re not tired the next day.”

“How?”

“I find warm milk before the transformation helps,” said Logan. “And be sure to sing yourself a lullaby.” He was silhouetted by the sunlight, and it was impossible to see the expression that accompanied the words.

“…You’re kidding.”

“Yeah.” Logan snorted. “It’s really more a matter of staying calm and relaxed through the transformation. Peaceful thoughts. Most of the wolf’s anger and energy comes from fighting the transformation to start with.” Hank’s heart sank.

“I don’t think that’s going to work for me,” he said.

“Why not?” Logan sat down on the windowsill, massive arms crossed over his broad chest.

“I—well, it’s not like I can just _relax_ at that point—”

“Why not?” said Logan again.

“Because I’m about to turn into a bloodthirsty monster!” said Hank.

“Do you know why you’re bloodthirsty at the full moon?”

“ _I’m_ not. The wolf is.” Wrong answer, apparently. Logan shook his head and stood up again, making to leave. Just inside the door he paused.

“Look, kid,” he said. “Chuck can teach you to be a Watcher if he ever grows up and gets with it. Erik can even teach you to be a vengeful asshole if you decide you’d rather hunt down the bastard who bit you. But only I can teach you how to be a werewolf, and for that to happen, you gotta get used to being one. It’s not like it’s something you can cure.” He sighed. “Moonrise is in four hours. Make sure you’re down there when it hits.”

 

Tonight’s sandwich—more breakfast than dinner, since Jean had slept for most of the afternoon—was almost finished when the moon rose outside the kitchen window and the house’s usual eerie silence gave way to anguished howls and rattling foundations. It didn’t bother Jean nearly as much as it had the night previous; now she knew more about werewolves, and more importantly, she no longer had any obligation to deal with them. Ever.

“For someone who’s scared of them, you’re awfully close by,” said a voice from the doorway that led to the basement stairs. Jean jumped, dropping the bread knife. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Sorry,” she said, collecting herself. “I didn’t see you there. You sort of blend in.”

“Is it really that the werewolves frighten you?” Erik continued. “Or is there some curiosity below the surface?”

“I—”

“Would you like to see them?” Jean stared at him. The tall man just shrugged and inclined his head towards the darkness behind him

“I—” she sucked in a breath, steeled herself, and nodded. “I think I would.”

“Then come down.” Erik sank back into the darkness and vanished down the stairs. Jean glanced nervously at the full moon outside the window, rapidly rising above the sill, and followed.

At the bottom of the several long, steep flights of stairs she found Erik in the bunker doorway and Charles sitting at a small table and chairs that definitely hadn’t been there two nights ago. The—no, not a Watcher, not anymore, or at least not _hers_ —he looked up from his newspaper as she hesitated, regarding warily the two wolves behind the grate. One was very large, his silver fur almost bluish. The smaller one had darker coloring.

“Jean?” said Charles. “What are you doing down here? Is something wrong?”

“No?” she said. Sound barely made it out. She couldn’t take her eyes off the wolves. The big one stood as she edged her way into the large stone room. Growling, he began to stalk towards the grate. Jean stopped short. So did the werewolf, though his teeth were still bared. She wondered which one it was.

“I thought since she was up all night reading about them, perhaps she ought to see them in person,” Erik explained as he moved calmly toward the grate, where he stood for a moment, looking down at the wolf, who sniffed at him curiously, whined, and slunk away again.

“…I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that,” said Charles a bit doubtfully. Jean’s attention had turned to the small, dark wolf in the back corner.

“Is he okay?” she asked. Charles followed her gaze.

“Oh, Logan? Yes, I’d say he’s more _okay_ than Hank. Asleep as he is.”

“Wait, that one’s Logan?” She had assumed he was the big dangerous-looking one. As a human he certainly was. Knowing his wolf was completely different was somehow encouraging. The people who wrote the grimoire seemed to think werewolves, as humans, were just as brutal as their full moon forms, but if grumpy Logan became so docile and it was quiet Hank who turned menacing, that proved them completely wrong.

“Yes, he makes a very sweet puppy,” said Erik dryly, returning to slide out the other chair at the table and sink into it.

“Hank’s a bit more temperamental,” Charles put in.

“Where did you go this morning?” Erik asked after a moment’s pause, in which the Logan wolf snored loudly and the Hank wolf whined piteously again. “I saw you slip out.”

“You did what?” Charles snapped up to look at Jean so quickly she hoped he didn’t get whiplash. “That’s hardly safe.”

“No, it was fine. I didn’t go outside the property line.” She shrugged. “Though I did see the graveyard. Is it haunted?”

“The graveyard?” Erik looked up, actually looking mildly interested. “Is there one?”

“Just past the fence on the northeast corner, yes.” Charles frowned. “Haunted, though? I doubt it. Unless the spirit of one of the more recently-deceased relations decided to stick around, and I just haven’t noticed. Always a possibility.”

“Is that really how haunting works?” Jean asked, surprised. “I figured it had to be more complicated than that. Most stuff is, is what I’ve been learning.”

“Hell if I know.” Charles looked back at his newspaper. “I’m just hypothesizing. If you’re so curious, go look it up.”

“Oh.” Jean stepped away, hurt. “All right. Maybe I will.” With a last glance at the werewolves, she turned and dashed back up the stairs.

 

“What?” said Charles. He could feel the scourge of Erik’s glare without looking. “She’s made it very clear she doesn’t want my tutelage. She can learn on her own for all I care.”

“You don’t have to be unpleasant about it.”

“You lot got dumped in my house with no warning. I reserve the right to be as unpleasant as I want.” Erik said nothing. After a minute Charles finally gave in and looked up, to see the handsome face twisted in disgust. “What?”

“Maybe she is better off without your instruction, after all.” Abruptly, he stood. “I’ll make the tea.” Charles thought he heard an echo of _anything to get away from you_.

“Fine. Bring the chess set down again, would you?”

“I think not,” said Erik as nastily as he had spoken yet, and vanished back up the stairs. When he returned minutes later it was with a tray of tea, two cups, and not so much as a speck of sugar or a drop of milk. They sat in stewing silence for a long time, watching Logan sleep and Hank pace around the enclosure, still whining more than howling. Finally—quite a while later, actually—Erik spoke again. “She can’t deny what she is, what she was meant for,” he said, “and I don’t see what you can possibly gain from encouraging it.”

“It’s not about _gaining_ anything,” said Charles. “It’s about keeping the pain _out_.”

“And what gives you the right to put your soul ahead of hers?” Erik muttered. Charles decided to pretend he hadn’t heard that.

Neither one of them spoke another word that night.

 

Somehow, as soon as the book stopped having any kind of bearing on Jean’s life and future, it became that much easier and even enjoyable to read. It was a lot easier to treat it like the fiction it still sort of felt like.

In searching for ghosts she opened it too far in at first, to _ghouls_. Probably that would be interesting and relevant too. Ghosts first, though.

_True ghosts are rare: the souls of the dead most often go on to heaven on the mortal separation from their physical bodies. If a ghost is a true ghost, she is the rare creature that the Slayer need not fear to approach, for while she may be vengeful towards a man she will be gentle to a woman, or to any member of her family, save if he was the one to kill her. For when a ghost does manifest, the soul is most likely to be that of a woman: especially one who died a violent or unjust death. She is often young, always with a powerful bond to the land she haunts._

Jean shut the book. It was as if a jolt ran down her spine.

“Raven,” she said aloud, in wonder. “It’s Raven.”

She had heard very little about the earlier Slayer—Xavier’s adopted sister who had died years ago, when the infamous Buffy was called. It made perfect sense, though, with the description in the book, that she would have manifested as a ghost. Other than the loose family tree, all Jean really knew about her was that she had been killed by a vampire. Which was definitely violent, definitely unjust, and—

Vampires, she realized, were the one creature she had avoided reading about altogether. The full title Giles had offered for her so-called “destiny” was Vampire Slayer, after all, and when the destiny you didn’t want was that inextricably linked with a thing—but she wasn’t going to be that, not anymore, so it didn’t matter. She flipped through the book until, at last, there it was: the title, repeated in the tome. _Vampyr._

_Chiefest among the dreadful creatures combated by the Slayer is this, a demon manifest in the form of man or woman…_

She didn’t even hear when the howling started again.

 

Every single fluorescent light on the stone ceiling had been turned on, and it was awful. Hank dragged himself to standing and pulled on his clothes, all groggily, not really giving a shit what anyone saw, not when his head felt like this. God, he hated being a werewolf.

Someone was saying something on the outside of the grate. Something about not wanting to be a Slayer. It was all a sort of low buzz to his ears; it always took a while for the human senses to get back in full working order. He fumbled at the gate until it opened, whether by his endeavor or someone else’s pity he had no idea, and shuffled past the blurry forms of two tall men and one short as he headed for the stairs.

Somehow he found himself at the top of the stairs in the kitchen. Then at the top of the stairs in the hallway. His bedroom was one of these. Not that. Here. He opened the door.

There was someone else in here already. The human was female. To his horror, he knew it by scent rather than sight. That wasn’t very human of him.

Jean. Right. She didn’t look scared, as his vision started to clear a little, so much as surprised.

“Oh, is it after moonset? Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“Why’re y—in my room?” He heard how slurred it sounded, and winced, but he didn’t really have the energy to put actual effort into talking like a normal person. He _wasn’t_ a normal person. She knew that perfectly well.

“My book’s missing a page.” She dropped to her knees to peer at his lowest bookshelf. Hank leaned on the doorframe, rubbing his eyes, wishing he could rub out the headache that pounded behind them. Full moon night hangovers were always the very worst of all.

“Wha?”

“Page 616. From the vampire section.”

“Kay. So?”

“So, you were a Watcher in training. Don’t you have a copy of the Vampyr grimoire?”

“…Maybe?” Hank managed. Finally Jean looked up at him critically.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m a werewolf.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes it is.” He moved again, feeling he could, and flopped onto his bed. The solidity felt very good beneath him. Jean sat down near his feet. “Hey.”

“What?”

“Thought you were scared of me. Grr. Argh.”

“Not as much.” She shrugged. Hank wracked his brains for something else to say. Conversation was polite, even if his head felt like hell. That was how one made friends, right?

“… Did I hear someone say you don’t want to be a Slayer?” Oops. That probably wasn’t a good topic. Jean just sighed.

“I never wanted to be the Slayer.”

“Well, you’re not,” Hank pointed out, probably unhelpfully. “You’re _a_ Slayer. There are a lot of them.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve decided I’m not going to be even that,” said Jean. “And Xavier doesn’t want to be a Watcher, so it works out.”

“Huh.” Hank frowned. He wondered if she would bring him painkillers. If they even _had_ any painkillers. Maybe Erik would. He seemed like the most functional adult here, and so was probably prepared for the kinds of situations that might require them. “I didn’t think that was the kind of thing you could just decide.”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be,” said Jean. “But like you said, there are a lot of Slayers now. I can’t imagine one is going to make a lot of difference.”

“Mm. Maybe not.” Or a cold washcloth. That was what his mother used to give him for migraines. Put it over his eyes. Worked miracles. Would the same things work on werewolf hangovers as migraines, though? They certainly felt the same, once his senses cleared up.

“Especially since I’m clearly not cut out for it,” Jean added. Hank frowned.

“If you’re a Slayer, you’re sort of literally cut out for it.”

“Maybe. But Xavier said the book wasn’t supposed to scare me.”

“Did he?” Hank pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s…”

“I should go away,” said Jean suddenly, as if she had just now noticed he wasn’t exactly well. “Sorry. You’re still recovering. I’ll leave you alone.”

“That would be… probably good. Yeah.” Hank rolled over, blinked, and immediately screwed his eyes shut tight against the sunrise streaming in through the window. “Would you close the curtain?”

“Oh—sure.” Jean did. “Oh. The book’s over here. Can I—?”

“Sure.” Hank propped himself up on an elbow as she came over to grab the book from his nightstand. “Uh—out of interest, what’s on page 616?”

“I don’t know. It was torn out.”

“I know. But I just… wonder why.” He sank back against his pillow. “Since it’s Charles’ copy you’re reading. So he was probably who—”

“Yeah.” Jean flipped through the book. When she reached the right page she squinted at it closely in the half-darkness. “Um—a big diagram of, like, a skeleton, and then, ‘the vampyr is by nature a soulless creature, devoid of all humanity, a shell hollowed out to mask a vicious demon. Yet in some lands it is said that’—oh, weird. You can give a vampire back its soul?”

“Oh. Yeah. I figured everyone knew that.” Hank closed his eyes. “Since there was that one in California. Angelus. But with a soul.”

“Weird,” said Jean again. “I don’t know what that has to do with Xavier, though.”

“Yeah.” Hank listened to her footsteps as they skirted the end of his bed and made for the door. “Hey,” he said just before she reached it. “The book, you know?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think that it’s—I mean, I think it is supposed to scare you. I think Xavier’s wrong.”

“Really?”

“I don’t—I don’t _know_ ,” said Hank. “But I mean—when he read it, he’d already grown up knowing this stuff. Since his dad was a Watcher. But it probably didn’t scare him. I just know it did scare me.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“But you’re a werewolf.”

“I wasn’t when I read it, though.”

“Oh. Right.”

“But I think it is supposed to scare you, though not—not out of wanting to be a Slayer at all. I think it’s more supposed to make you realize, I guess, that knowledge is power, and once you know these things are real and don’t spend all your time convincing yourself they’re not—”

“Like normal people do.” Jean sighed. “I wish I could.”

“Right, but—but you can’t. Now that you know. But it’s doubly dangerous for people who don’t, so it’s our job to protect them. _Especially_ now that there are a bunch of Slayers, and more and more people are learning about supernatural stuff. And stakes and swords and stuff are great, but knowledge is the most dangerous weapon we have.” Hank fell back to his pillows again, head aching even more than before. “At least, that’s what they teach the Watchers. I guess since we’re supposed to be knowledgeable, and the stakes and swords are more your department.”

“Do you think I’d be able to fight?” Jean asked. She sounded very meek. It was a weird contrast, the words and the tone.

“You’re a Slayer,” said Hank exhaustedly. “Being able to fight monsters is literally your superpower.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.” Jean hesitated a moment longer. “Do you want water or anything?”

“… A wet towel would be great.”

“Okay.” A few minutes later she came in and laid one across his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said hoarsely.

“No problem,” Jean whispered, and he could have sworn he heard her say something like “faoladh,” not that he had any idea what that meant, and then, blessedly, he was asleep.

 

“Hey.” Logan thumped him on the arm. “Get up, kid. Time for a lycanthropy lesson.”

“What the hell…?” Jerked brutally into consciousness, Hank sat up. The world spun around him for a moment. “No.”

“So you’re a bloodthirsty beast, huh? Why do you think that is?”

“Because you’re waking me up?”

“That’s more like it.” Logan snorted. “Nah, there’s a real reason. Very scientific and stuff. Heard you like that bullshit.”

“I’ve been told I’m overeducated for my age, if that’s what you… mean…” the last words came out as a yawn.

“Exactly.” Logan punched him again.

“Ow.”

“Books and stuff, not that I learned it from there.”

“Yes, god forbid _you_ should ever touch such a thing.”

“You’d give Chuck a run for his money with the proper British sarcasm right now,” said Logan. “I’m impressed. Anyway, the reason werewolves are bloodthirsty is that for most of us, the wolf state is really one long, drawn-out panic attack transferred to animal form.”

“Wait. Really?” That was unexpected. Hank blinked at the bigger werewolf in surprise. Unexpected, but it made so much _sense_.

“Yup.” Logan sat back on the edge of the bed, clearly satisfied at last that Hank was paying attention. “When I was younger, see, I had some nasty PTSD, and it made me _brutal_. Which wasn’t good for the people around me, I’ll tell you. So I started figuring out how to deal with it.”

“Which is why you can sleep.” Hank leaned forward, his interest caught.

“Yup.”

“How do you do it?”

“Told you yesterday. Peaceful thoughts.”

“That seems deceptively simple.”

“It is.” Logan shrugged. “Look, I don’t know how to help you _exactly_ , not least ‘cause our problems are pretty different.”

“I think I’m more anxiety than PTSD,” Hank muttered.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a bit of both. I figure all werewolves have at least one trauma, and in common too. But sure.” Logan clapped him on the shoulder. “So. What about being a werewolf makes you anxious?”

“The fact that it turns me into a bloodthirsty beast. Which is circular logic, apparently, since being worried about becoming a bloodthirsty beast is what makes me one.” Hank sighed. “…it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Awesome.”

“Think about that, then.”

“I don’t know how much it will help.”

“Well, hopefully it will,” said Logan, “since moonrise is in fifteen and I’m here to bring you downstairs.”

“Great.” Hank’s heart sank into his stomach. “Here goes nothing.”

 

The kid did better than expected. Logan watched the transformation through his own rapidly-shifting eyes. Kid didn’t even curl up into a ball this time, just sat there, eyes closed. Hands in fists, but he hadn’t expected immediate perfection.

Maybe they should find some more werewolves, the primal brain thought. The bigger werewolf curled up not far off, a lot more peaceful than usual. He had his paws over his muzzle. Rain on the way. Maybe they should find some more. It would be nice to have a pack. A pack was good. A pack was family. Protection. Those things over there, the small human and the tall one, those weren’t wolves. Not a proper pack. A proper pack was family.

For now, two was enough.

 

It was early morning, the sun barely up, and no one else in the house was awake. Jean had tried to sleep at a reasonable hour, but all it had done was set her up to wake at—ugh, 7 AM? She was _sixteen_. Seriously.

Outside her window, it looked like it was going to be a very nice day. The rising sun gleamed on the grass from behind scattered clouds—and it had rained overnight for the first time since they had been here. Her windowpane was still shimmering with it.

Sneaking out of the house wasn’t something Jean had ever had the opportunity to do back home, so she figured she might as well do it here. A thought had been prodding at her for a day now, also, that perhaps she ought to go and try to talk to Raven’s ghost. The book had said it was safe, and if there was anyone to ask about being a Slayer, it was another Slayer—and all the rest of them were in California. Sure, the graveyard was outside the fence, but it was still on the property. Pretty convenient, considering.

The house was just as quiet downstairs as it had sounded from her room. Not even howling. Jean wondered if werewolves slept. Maybe so.

Outside, a morning breeze was crisp, and Jean sort of wished she had grabbed a sweatshirt. Whatever. The cold was refreshing, in a way—woke her right up. Running away from the ghost (that had been stupid, in retrospect, now she knew she had nothing to worry about) had given her a better understanding of the layout of the grounds, and more importantly, a much more direct route to the graveyard.

She lingered for a moment with one hand on the gate latch, wondering, now she was here, if this wasn’t such a good idea after all. She wasn’t sure how far the protection extended, after all—whether it was the property line itself, or just the fence.

Whatever. It wasn’t like she was going very far past the fence, anyway. She opened the gate and slipped out.

“Raven?” she called as she walked further into the little cemetery. It came out very quiet at first, sounding half-strangled, so she called again, stronger this time. “Raven?” Nothing. Undeterred, Jean looked around. Aware of her surroundings. She was still working on it.

The newest two gravestones, near the edge of the yard, caught her eye as they had before. She knelt on the wet grass to look at them more closely.

 _Brian Xavier,_ said the first. _1951-1995. Devoted husband, beloved father, tenacious Watcher._ If Jean knew little about Raven, she knew even less about Xavier’s father.

 _Raven Darkhölme_ was written on the other. It was smaller, more delicate in a way. _1979-1995._

“What have we here?” said a sweet voice, and Jean looked up into the eyes of a young woman.

“R—Raven?” she said.

 

It was the first time Hank had ever woken up human from wolf without a mind-searing hangover, and it was incredible. His senses were still a little fuzzy, but clearing faster than usual. Everyone else in the bunker seemed to be asleep—Logan was back to human, but not awake, and even Erik was slumped on the floor against Charles’ leg.

Hank dressed and crept past them as quietly as he could, and made his way up the stairs. As he emerged into the kitchen he heard the front door shut with a dull _thud_. Curious, he followed the sound to see Jean strolling away across the grounds. With a bad feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, Hank followed.

 

“What have we here?” The young woman looked down at Jean curiously. “Is it you? The new Slayer?”

“One of them,” said Jean, staring up at her. “Are you Raven?”

“Raven,” she repeated, and smiled, sinking down to kneel on the other side of the headstone. She was dressed all in white; her long blonde hair fell loose around her shoulders. She looked more angelic than ghostly, but there was something of death, Jean thought, in her eyes. She certainly looked eerie enough to be a ghost. “This is the grave.”

“Yes,” said Jean, but before she could say anything else, the gates creaked behind her and she turned to see Hank slipping through. He looked very worried. “Hank? What’s going on?”

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

“I found a ghost—” but his eyes had gone wide with fear. “What?”

“That’s not a ghost, Jean—no!” Strong, very solid hands—ghosts weren’t solid—oh—seized her shoulders and pulled her away. She struggled in their grasp, managing to turn enough to see the woman grinning. Her face looked monstrous now, and the grin was fanged.

“It’s Emma, actually,” she said, and pulled Jean over the headstone— _ouch_ —

After a moment of flying through the air—that was interesting—all the air flew from her lungs as she landed flat on her back on top of a sarcophagus, staring up into yellow eyes. This wasn’t the woman: this was a tall man in a very nice suit, his face just as deformed, almost batlike. These, Jean realized, were vampires. _Oh, god. I’m going to die. I’m going to die just like Raven did—_

“Hey!” A stone whizzed past her head to smash into the mausoleum wall behind them. The vampire turned around, and Jean sat up enough, to see Hank still by the gate. The woman—Emma—was ambling towards him almost tauntingly, but the werewolf stayed stubbornly in place. He beckoned to Jean, who moved without thinking, jumping over the headstone and rolling toward him. Emma leapt into motion with a snarl, flying towards her, and she really was going to die, wasn't she—

Then the rising sun peeked over the trees behind the mausoleum, and the vampire rolled away with a howl more chilling than any Hank had produced as a werewolf the past few nights. When Jean looked up, the golden hair was ablaze. Vampires burned in sunlight. Right. The book had said that. Hank seized her around the waist and dragged her back towards the gate, where the shadow of the trees was creeping back towards the headstones. They sat there for a moment locked in a staring contest with the vampires. Then, with a toss of her extinguished hair, Emma slipped her arm through the man’s elbow—he had to be Shaw, Jean realized—and they turned haughtily to make their way back into the mausoleum.

“Well,” said Hank. “That was a wake-up call. You could have at _least_ brought a stake.”

“Not like I would have known how to use it,” said Jean. “You can’t learn _that_ from a book.” Hank winced.

“No,” he said.

“I still don’t want to be the Slayer,” said Jean. “For the record. But I don’t think the universe is going to give me a choice.”

“Well, not if you keep _leaving the property unaccompanied_ ,” said Hank. Jean shrugged.

“I’ve got vampires after me,” she said. “I don’t think it matters what I do. They’re still going to be hunting me down.”

“You could at least not make that easier for them.”

“True.” She smiled wanly. “Sorry.”

“’S okay. I’m glad I followed you.”

“Yeah.”

“Especially since everyone else is asleep.” Hank rolled his eyes. “Great Watcher, that Charles Xavier.”

“He doesn’t care.” Jean shrugged, glancing at the headstones. “I guess I get that. He lost half his family to this whole… thing. I’ve got a sister. And there’s my Dad. I wouldn’t want to lose them, either.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Hank shook his head. “Still, I don’t think we’re going to learn a lot from him. Not for a while.”

“Well, you’ve got most of the _actual_ Watcher stuff, right?” said Jean. “And I’ve got the superpowers.”

“Yeah, those have been _real_ useful so far.”

“Hey.” Jean whacked him in the arm. “I’m still learning.”

“So am I.”

“So let’s teach each other. We can learn together.”

“I bet Logan will help,” said Hank. “Yeah. And if we get _really_ stuck on something, we can always try asking Charles.”

“Deal.” They stood and shook hands like this was something formal.

“My word, Slayer.”

“And… mine, faoladh.”

“What does that even mean?” said Hank as they shut the gate and started back towards the house.

“It’s the Irish word for werewolf,” Jean said. “Didn’t _you_ read the book, like, years ago?”

“Like I remember all of that. It’s 800 pages long.”

“Well, the faoladh is a werewolf, but a good one. A protector.”

“Oh.”

“Like a Watcher-wolf.”

“I like that, too.” He drew himself up to his full height, which was admittedly a lot. “Well, Slayer, as Watcher-wolf, it’s time for your first lesson: _never leave the house without a stake_ , what were you _thinking_ …”

 

“That went well,” said Emma. Shaw leaned on the oldest crypt in the mausoleum, arms crossed over his chest.

“Wonderfully,” he said. “Now they’ll know we’re here. That should put _Lehnsherr_ on the lookout, at least. An excellent distraction. Well done.”

“I thought it was kind of cute,” Emma said almost wistfully. “How she thought I was Raven’s ghost. Adorable.”

“Yes, well, adorable though the child may be, it’s time to move on.” Shaw stood, and stretched. “Once we’re gone, they’ll never believe it until given proof.” Emma smiled.

“Then let’s make them some.”

 


	3. October | Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween finds the mansion haunted by malevolent spirits.

  


“Ooooooooo!” Their voices were breathy, probably meant to sound eerie. Failing in that endeavor.

“No.” Erik didn’t look up from his book. Jean and Hank put some slack on the fishing line to dangle their sheet a little closer to his face.

 _“Oooooooooooooo!”_ they chorused more insistently. Without looking, Erik reached up and, when his fingers found fabric, bunched it into his fist and tugged hard. He felt them try to pull the fishing line back, but too late—the entire confounded contraption came crashing down from the ceiling, pulling Hank with it. The ladder fell onto Erik’s chair, and he dove out of the way—

“What the bloody hell are you maniacs doing to my house at six in the morning on a Saturday?” When Erik rolled over to an angle where he could see him, Charles was leaning on the doorframe, wearing a bathrobe and rubbing bleary eyes against the catastrophe before him. Jean’s head popped up out of the wreckage.

“It’s Friday,” she said. Charles waved a hand.

“Whatever.”

“More importantly,” said Hank, “it’s Halloween.”

“Well, that would explain what I had to crawl through just to get down here,” said Charles as somewhere out on the stairs they heard Logan swearing loudly and fluently amidst a series of nasty-sounding crashes.

“Do you think maybe you _overdid it a little_ on the fucking _fake pumpkins_ , Hank?” he yelled, stomping up to the doorway. Charles winced when Logan reached his ear without decreasing volume even slightly.

“… It’s Halloween?” Hank repeated, weakly this time. “At least they weren’t real pumpkins.”

“God, and I thought the fake cobwebs were a bloody mess.” Charles shuddered. “Well, clean it up, would you? By the time I’m back from the kitchen, preferably.” And he walked away again. After a look at the surrounding carnage, Erik picked up himself and his book and followed. “What do you want?” Charles asked rather irritably as they reached the kitchen.

“A second cup of coffee,” Erik replied coolly.

“You do that,” Charles muttered, then, “Oh, for crying out loud!” He had opened the kitchen door to reveal another fake ghost hanging from the ceiling near the refrigerator. “They have been proactive, haven’t they?”

“No thanks to you,” Erik couldn’t quite withhold. Charles grumbled something incomprehensible in response. Erik rolled his eyes and opened the cupboard that housed the coffee again.

It felt like the entire house had been walking on tiptoe for nearly the entire two months they had all been inhabiting it. The only people who seemed to get along particularly well were Hank and Jean, who both seemed, to Erik’s eyes, to be getting more comfortable with what they had lately become and the roles those changes had required them to take on. Logan was as surly as ever, softening only for the teenagers, and then only occasionally; to Erik he was still relentlessly hostile. And Charles… was still hiding from the world, as far as Erik could tell, evading every hint of responsibility anyone tried to land on him. It was a little infuriating, how content the Watcher seemed to be to sit back and let his would-be students fumble their way through training themselves.

Bored waiting for the coffee maker—as ancient and slow as any other appliance in this house—Erik glanced around. A set of pictures hanging on the wall caught his eye, and he stepped over to look more closely. In the first, a blond woman stood in front of the house beside a small boy. He realized with a jolt that it was clearly Charles, surely no less than fifteen years ago, and the woman was his mother. A man and a little girl were pictured beside them. Those faces he could recognize, too. In the last picture the woman was back, older and less cheerful, standing with a tall man who wasn’t Brian and a sullen teenager who wasn’t Charles.

“The Markos,” Charles said from the toaster, leveling a flat gaze in the same direction. “Mother’s second family.” He spat the words like they were poison in his mouth.

“How old were you?”

“When she remarried? Twenty.” Apparently it was possible for his tone to go darker still. Erik just nodded.

They returned to a chilly silence so complete that the sound of toast popping up was startling. He glanced away from the photos in time to see Charles at the refrigerator, resolutely ignoring the fake ghost where it still hovered near his shoulder. Erik frowned.

“Did that thing move?”

“What?” Charles stood up so quickly he hit his head on the roof of the refrigerator. Scowling, he looked up, rubbing at his head in a manner that could only muss his already-wretched overlong hair further. “Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. It’s just another sheet.”

“If you’re sure,” said Erik dubiously. The ghost hung there, suddenly much more ominous than before. Something about it just felt… _off_ … He shook himself out of it. A sheet. Only a stupid, empty sheet.

“…Yeah.” Charles took up his toast and tea and left the kitchen. Erik remained, waiting for his coffee to drip, gazing uneasily at the sheet. In the time he stood there watching there wasn’t so much as a draft to make it flutter.

After what felt like eternity, the cup was full and the coffee maker beeped. He grabbed the cup and left the room as quickly as possible. Back in the study, the furniture was all back in place and the kids were sitting there looking perfectly innocent while Charles glared at the wall over their heads, handling his toast in a manner that suggested it had killed his whole family, which, of course, _it_ hadn’t…

The ghost contraption was off the ceiling and resting in the chair that Erik had occupied before. When he picked it up, the sheet felt comfortingly cottony and normal. That was something strange about the one in the kitchen—it had looked older, torn and ratty and yellowing. Admittedly, a lot of things in the mansion matched that description, but when Jean and Hank had used a plain white sheet for this one…

This was stupid, he told himself. Erik was far too old to be frightened by something so innocuous. It was all in his head.

“Now that this one’s down,” he said, holding up the rumpled sheet, “would the two of you go take down the one in the kitchen? The joke’s been played.” Jean and Hank looked at each other, then back at him.

“What one in the kitchen?” said Jean. Erik rolled his eyes.

“Very funny.”

“No, seriously,” said Hank, uneasiness growing in his face, “we didn’t put one there.” Erik blinked.

“What?” he said, but before they could take this discussion any further, the doorbell rang.

  


  


“Trick or treat!” greeted him as he opened the door.

“What do you want?” Charles snarled in the face of the rotund, bespectacled man in black on his doorstep, who stepped back instinctively at the look on his face and nearly went tumbling down the stairs.

“Um, I have a delivery for—um—Charles Xavier. Is that—you?”

“Yes. What is it?” The man stepped aside to reveal a handtruck piled with three carefully-taped, this-side-up cardboard boxes. They were all stamped with the seal of the Watchers’ Council, and beside it that of the Alchemy Lab. Personal effects back from testing and disenchantment. Charles’ stomach turned.

His father’s boxes had been much bigger. Then again, his father had died alone on patrol with Raven, a solitary double murder that left everything in England perfectly intact (including his son, not that any of Charles’ disenchantment then had been literal). The explosion that killed his mother and stepfather would have destroyed most of the personal effects that weren’t behind the locked doors to the one wing upstairs he hadn’t reopened yet.

He hated being an adult.

“…you’ll have to sign here,” the man was explaining. “Then they’re in your hands, and out of ours, and won’t that be a relief. You wouldn’t believe the sheer volume of stuff we’ve had to process this summer—”

“Three hundred eighty-six,” Charles interrupted flatly. The man seemed to remember himself, and looked horrified.

“Oh—I only meant—of course you’d know, you—sir, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Charles muttered. “I’ll sign the paper now.”

“Oh—yes, please do. Thanks.” The man in black stood there awkwardly as Charles glanced over the delivery papers and signed his name on the appointed line. _C F Xavier_ , melting away into a meandering flatline. It was certainly a more fluid set of initials to sign than his father’s _B G_ had been. He wondered how Raven’s signature would have looked. Then he didn’t.

When he was a boy he had assumed that Watcher business would be confined entirely to the arcane. It had felt very odd, at eighteen, to be signing his name with a ballpoint pen on an inkjet-printed sheet to receive a pile of cardboard shipping boxes, rather than, say, performing some kind of blood sacrifice to receive a stack of mysterious crates. It felt a little less strange these days, but so did most things, in his general state of disconnect.

“Thank you.” He handed the clipboard back to the delivery man, who nodded.

“Just doing my job.” He wheeled the handtruck up to the door. Charles looked at it dispassionately. Some of Cain’s creepy little statues had been rather heavy, as he recalled.

“I can take those,” said Erik quietly from behind him as he hefted the top box—his mother’s, when he glanced at the label.

“Fine.” Charles shoved it into his hands. “Be my guest.” The responsibility removed from his shoulders, he turned and walked back into the house.

“Where do you want them?” Erik called after him as he started up the stairs.

“Wherever,” said Charles. “I’m going back to bed. This morning can try again in a few hours.”

 

Hank crashed to the ground harder than expected. The hard, cold earth knocked the wind out of him. He lay there gasping until he caught his breath again, then sat up. Jean, leaning over him worriedly, offered a hand. He shook his hand.

“You’re—getting _strong_ ,” Hank gasped. “Maybe you should be—fighting Logan—or something. Ugh.” He flopped back onto the ground. It was uncomfortable, but for the moment it was better than trying to stay at all upright.

“Or maybe I should start learning other weapons,” said Jean, plopping down beside him. The clouds overhead looked increasingly angry, but so far there hadn’t been so much as a drop—oh. Until now. The first droplet landed on Hank’s bare arm, the second on his glasses, because of course it did.

“For now, let’s go inside. If it’s going to rain.” He drug himself to standing, the Slayer popping up beside him, and started back toward the house. Just before they got there it was as if a celestial bucket overturned on them. They ran the last few yards and up the steps, bursting through the front doors and slamming them behind them to lean back against the wood, panting.

“Why are you two wet?” Logan asked suspiciously as he emerged from the kitchen. Hank stared at him.

“…Because it’s raining?” said Jean.

“Huh.” Logan crossed the foyer to peer out the window. “So it is. Why were you outside, then?”

“It’s not like it was raining when we _went_ outside.”

“Training,” Hank clarified. “We were wondering if you’d help with that, actually. She’s getting a little too good to keep sparring with me.”

“You just don’t like getting thrown on the ground,” said Jean smugly. Logan snorted.

“What makes you think I’d be any better?”

“I just sort of assumed,” said Hank.

“Maybe later.” Logan shrugged. “I’ve got shit to do.” He started up the stairs. The teenagers stared after him as he vanished into their wing of the second floor.

“What could he possibly have to do?” Hank wondered aloud. Jean shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I told you, I’d rather start on weapons. Swords and stuff.”

“That I could still help you with, I think,” said Hank, “if we had any.”

“Well, this is a Watcher house,” said Jean. “Like, an old one. There’s got to be some kind of weapon stash somewhere, right?”

“Or, you know, an armory.” Hank shrugged. “It’s almost certain there _is_ one, really. I just don’t know where it would be.”

“Let’s try the attic. I’ve been wanting to go up there.” Jean looked really, properly excited as she grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the stairs. Hank grinned. “What?”

“It’s just nice to see you interested in this stuff,” he said. “Embracing your destiny and that. Slayer.” She rolled her eyes.

“You too, faoladh,” she said. “Now come on.”

 

Charles and Erik were halfway across the grounds, urns heavy in their arms, when the sky opened up overhead with clear intent to drench them.

“The cemetery isn’t covered,” said Erik doubtfully.

“There’s always the sepulchre,” said Charles, and continued resolutely on toward the edge of the property.

“Are you sure about that?” Erik asked, jogging to catch up. “The Hellfire Club could still be hiding in there—” Ah, yes. They had heard about Jean and Hank’s little adventure not long after it occurred, but that was nearly two months ago now and Charles had nearly forgotten, not that he had given it much thought in the first place.

“And if they are, a little rain’s not going to stop them, now is it?” he pointed out now. “That’s why we brought _stakes_.” Another two hours’ sleep had not, unfortunately, managed to stop the boxes of dead family members’ effects—and, as it turned out, remains, however impersonal and ceremonial, ashes recovered from the blast site that could be anyone’s—from existing, so he had decided they might as well get this over with.

“I’m just saying, that row’s a lot closer to the property line than the mausoleum,” Erik pointed out. Already the rain had darkened his hair substantially, and flattened it against his head.

“Well, if they _are_ still there,” said Charles, “maybe you can get your revenge over with sooner than you thought.” Erik laughed harshly and without humor.

“Yes,” he said darkly. “Perhaps.”

“And then our problem will go away. Well, yours and Jean’s, at least.”

“Won’t that be convenient.”

“Awfully.” They reached the gate. It creaked when Charles pushed it open. He wondered if the rain would rust it. He decided he didn’t care.

The door to the mausoleum was heavier, and creaked even louder.

“Any vampires here?” Charles called. Everything echoed in the stone room, larger than it looked from outside—the mausoleum extended a ways back into the trees. “No? Good.” He set down the urn marked with his mother’s name against the wall. Erik did the same with the others, then looked vaguely horrified when Charles picked up the one that was ostensibly Kurt’s and used it to prop open the door. “What?” he said. “It’ll be pitch-black in here otherwise. I don’t have anything to light the sconces.”

“That’s not—” Erik shook his head, evidently deciding not to pursue it. _Wise choice,_ Charles thought. “It is… a little gloomy in here,” Erik said instead.

“It’s a sepulchre. It should be.”

“I suppose.” His tone was oddly careful.

“I went back to the kitchen,” said Charles, after a moment’s casting around for something to say. “That ghost was gone.”

“Was it.”

“I guess they cleaned it up.”

“They said they didn’t know anything about it,” said Erik uneasily. “I’m still not convinced it wasn’t—something else.” Before Charles could say anything to that, someone in a far corner of the stone room cleared his throat. They both jumped up, and Charles turned, fully expecting to come face-to-face with Shaw—

Then a white, translucent figure emerged through the wall.

Shit.

“Charles,” said the ghost. “What a surprise to see you out of your little cave.”

“Kurt,” Charles breathed, though he scarcely could. Erik, otherwise comparatively quite unbothered for a man who had literally just seen a ghost, raised his eyebrows.

“And when you always seemed to have such _reverence_ for the dead,” Kurt continued, nodding towards the urn presently functioning as a doorstop. Charles gulped. “What would your mother think?”

“I guess we’ll never know,” said Charles, though he barely felt his mouth move. It was as if his body was here, but he was somewhere else, somewhere too small and dark and—

“Charles.” Erik tapped his shoulder. Charles shook himself back into full alertness to realize that the ghost was gone, Erik was looking at him worriedly, and outside, the rain had let up.

“Let’s go back inside,” he said. “This place is… let’s go back.” He stalked out of the sepulchre fast enough that Erik had to jog to catch up.

“What about the urns?”

“It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”

“So that was your stepfather?” said Erik. Charles nodded shortly. “Oh. He—hmm.”

“What?” said Charles.

“He seemed like a bit of an asshole.”

“He was.” Charles shook his head. “ _Out of your cave_. Bastard never wanted me to leave. Well, on the other hand, he _did_ —wanted to kick me out entirely—Charles, you useless, pining invalid—”

“What?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” They were at the point where the rise grew steep leading up to the back of the house. “We should warn the kids. A fine Halloween this will be for them, with a _real_ ghost floating around scaring us.”

 

Jean had seen some spooky attics in her life. Her grandmother’s had always seemed fairly benign until she and her sister Sara had opened an antique steamer trunk to find it full of rats; her friend Cecilia’s had been particularly creepy, big and dark and full of weird stuff. Even her parents’, as she grew older and Dad got more and more interested in the occult and all things Slayer-related, had gradually filled up with things that were a little startling to run into on turning a corner.

None of them came close to matching the Xavier attic. In the twenty-some minutes she and Hank had been up here, they had seen not one but three separate human skeletons—and honestly, those were a lot more mundane, aside from the one that seemed to have wings, than some of the things pickled in jars and neatly organized on tall shelves along the entire south wall. Or the north wall, which was covered in… weapons.

“There we go.” Hank saw it at the same time Jean did, and pointed. “Weapons. Let’s go.” It was a longer walk to get across the room than it should have been, with lots of twists and turns through narrow aisles of splintery flooring between boxes and crates and very unstable-looking stacks of books. At one point they passed a heavy wardrobe that looked like it led to Narnia. In this attic, something like that actually seemed possible. Hadn’t Dad used to talk about multiverses? But she didn’t have time to wonder further, because they were nearing the weapons, and…

Jean’s heart sank. Up close, the swords and axes on the wall were clearly antiques—probably not used in hundreds of years, and certainly not meant to be used now.

“This isn’t it,” said Hank.

“No.” Jean sighed and sat down heavily on a crate. It didn’t feel too stable, but it would do for a moment.

“I mean, it’s _an_ armory, I guess. It’s just not the one we’re looking for.”

“No,” Jean agreed again. Hank frowned and began to pace back and forth.

“There’s got to be one somewhere,” he said. “Something—a room with weapons, at least. That tranquilizer gun had to come from somewhere, and the box of stakes in the front hall.”

“I guess so,” said Jean. “Where could it be?”

“That’s where I’m stuck,” said Hank. Then he brightened. “Logan might know!”

“Do you think he’d tell us?” Jean asked doubtfully. “He’s got ‘shit to do,’ remember?”

“Yeah. Or… Erik probably would.”

“Mm. Maybe.” Jean was still a little uncertain about him. Of the adults, he seemed the most… aloof. Still, he seemed more interested in her getting proper training than Xavier was, which made him a better bet for help with the armory… She was contemplating that when suddenly the crate gave way beneath her with a crash. The wood splintered into pieces and what looked like heavy glass marbles went rolling all over the floor. “Shit!” Someone snickered. “Hey!”

“What?” said Hank just as Jean looked up to see a figure looming behind him. “Wasn’t me—wait, what—holy—” he turned to see where she was looking, and stumbled away only to trip on a marble and fall to the floor beside her. They stared up at the spectral figure as, slowly, features came into focus. The boy looked about Hank’s age or a little older, though the resemblance ended there—Hank was tall, skinny, and wore glasses, and this guy looked like he had been the sort of kid who knocked over nerds like that on the playground.

“This isn’t the armory, _dumbass_ ,” said the—ghost? He looked like the ghosts Jean had read about in the grimoire some time ago now, sort of ethereal and intangible. “These are _my_ dad’s weapons.”

“Um… okay,” said Hank, scrambling to stand up again. When he did, he was of a height with the ghost, though the ghost was a lot bigger. “So, um, do you know where the armory is?”

“Nah. We could never find it. That old egghead Xavier hid his stuff well. Paranoid or something.” The boy looked grumpier as he said it. Jean frowned.

“Wait,” she said. “You mean—Charles?”

“Charlie? Pathetic little nerd, yay high?” He held a hand up to his shoulder. “Nah. I mean his dad.”

“…Oh.” Jean frowned. “Wait. Who are you?” The ghost looked at her like she was an idiot.

“Cain,” he said, as if it should be obvious. “Duh.”

 

Hank had read about exorcisms once or twice—he was reasonably certain they’d had to perform a practice one at _some_ point in his education, though the memory was hazy enough for him to honestly wonder whether he hadn’t dreamt it instead. Truth be told, most of his memories from before the bite were like that. Out of another life.

He hadn’t expected it to be this easy, was the point. There had been a lot of running around involved, yes, but he and Logan were good at that, and by some miracle they had all the necessary ingredients in the house already.

“How will this work?” Erik asked curiously as they placed the crystal for the last corner of the house-wide pentagram.

“Oh, the exorcism itself is fairly simple, actually,” said Hank. “It’s the setup that’s complicated.”

“ _Really_ complicated,” Jean muttered.

“So how does it _work_?” Erik asked again. In the doorway, Charles rolled his eyes.

“I say an incantation—‘expel what souls do curse us’, something something, only in Latin, of course—and we light some things on fire, and there you go. Problem solved.”

“I see.” Erik looked down at the crystal as Hank set it carefully on the exact spot he had measured out.

“Well,” said Charles. “That’s that. Come along.” He left the room, followed by Jean, then Hank. After a moment, Erik caught up as well.

“Who—um, who are the ghosts?” Hank asked curiously. “The one in the attic seemed to know you.”

“Cain.” Charles rolled his eyes. “My stepbrother. The one Erik and I saw was his father, Kurt.”

“Took you long enough,” said Logan grumpily, before Hank could reply. They had reached the landing they had pinpointed as the very center of the house and pentagram. “Let’s get this over with.”

As soon as Charles stepped into the center of the smaller pentagram chalked on the hardwood floor, the room around them went dark. Jean jumped. She looked terribly nervous. To Hank’s surprise, so did Erik, though on him it was just a momentary shadow before he snapped back to his usual aloof, mildly sardonic mask.

It took a lot of magic to perform a proper exorcism, Hank knew. His hazy memories of the one at the Academy included the presence of a powerful witch. Mrs. Harkness? Something like that. Now he wondered where they would get the magic to do this one.

Then, to his surprise, Charles sat down cross-legged on the floor. That was unorthodox. Seconds later, the Watcher opened his eyes to reveal the usual electric blue—but it was light this time, flowing out of his fingers, too, and apparently that was the answer to that question. And that was a _lot_ of magic. Hank hadn’t known Charles was any kind of warlock, let alone this.

“ _…Eorum qui in maledictum…_ ”

“This is cool,” Jean whispered, evidently quite recovered from her earlier fright.

“Shh,” Hank whispered back. She rolled her eyes. The blue light swirled around and around the room, moving faster, creeping up and down the stairs and off out of sight down each hall. He would have liked to see the house from outside, flickering blue in every window under the rain-darkened sky. Gradually it pulsated brighter and brighter. Then it slowed. Then it faded. Charles finished the incantation and the room brightened a little again, and the Watcher collapsed forward to brace himself against the floor, panting with the exertion.

“Well, I don’t see any ghosts. Looks like it worked,” said Logan after a moment’s heavy silence. “Let’s clean up.”

“You go on,” said Charles hoarsely, sitting up slightly, hands on his knees. “I’ll just—be a minute.” They left him sitting there unmoving, staring blankly at the floor. Hank almost asked if he was all right, but reconsidered. Logan caught his attention with a tap on the shoulder.

“You two wanted me to help you with something earlier, right?” he said. Jean nodded.

“Weapons training,” she said. “We agreed it’s time I started learning.”

“We thought maybe you would know where the armory is,” said Hank.

“You’d be right,” Logan replied. “Sure, I’ll help. Long as Chuck says it’s okay.” Hank wondered whether _Charles_ would care, but just then the man in question emerged up the stairs.

“What am I signing off on?” He was moving slowly, gingerly. Hank supposed he had been sitting there for quite a while—perhaps his legs had fallen asleep. The Watcher raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

“Um…” Jean looked at the floor, shuffling nervously.

“Teaching Jean to kill shit with things other than her bare hands,” Logan supplied. Charles shrugged.

“Whatever,” he said. “Try not to actually kill each other. Logan, you remember how to get into the armory?”

“Sure.” The big werewolf nodded shortly. “Let’s get to it.” And once the chalk lines were wiped up and the crystals gathered back into the dusty cardboard box from whence they had come in the first place, they did. He led them into the library, where a bookshelf quickly swung aside to reveal a hidden room behind it. Hank had read about these in books time and again, but even at the Academy he had never known one to exist in real life.

“This place is _awesome_ ,” Jean said aloud, as if she could read his mind. She ran a hand over a crossbow, mounted in a case on the near wall, then crossed the room in a few quick strides, heading straight for a small, wicked-looking cutlass. “I could kill a vampire by beheading it, right?”

“Absolutely,” said Logan from where he stood leaning against an empty wall, toying with what looked like a pair of brass knuckles. “Stake through the heart, beheading, fire, sunlight—pretty wide range of ways to do it, really. Guess it balances out that whole being-immortal thing.”

“What do you prefer?” Jean asked curiously.

“Well, it’s not like I’ve actually killed any vampires myself,” said Logan, then added, with a dark laugh, “though I can think of one or two I’d be more than happy to set on fire and watch ‘em burn.”

“That method has always seemed a little complicated to me,” said Hank. Jean glanced at him between moving on from the cutlass to a long glaive.

“Why, what would you do?”

“I’d rather not engage in the first place.” He shrugged. “But if I have no other choice—I’d try to lure them into the sunlight, I guess.”

“That’s why they got so angry when we went past the shadow line,” Jean realized. “The—Shaw, and—and Emma. At the graveyard.”

“And you’re lucky the sun was so close, too,” said Logan. “They would’ve done worse than just kill you. They’d’ve made you one of them.” Jean nodded.

“I know.”

“Good.” It was more of a grunt than an actual word, and Logan said nothing else the whole time they were in there. While Jean looked over a few more weapons, Hank looked up. There was a shelf near the ceiling that held not more of the archaic weapons mounted on the walls, but firearms—pistols, rifles, even a machine gun in a far dark corner. That was where the tranquilizer had come from, he supposed. Good to know. Below the rack were other ranged weapons, more traditional ones: a very fancy bow, a worn set of throwing knives, the crossbow Jean had noticed when first they came in.

Hank was familiar with crossbows—they were well-loved in the Slayer organization, widely considered a godsend in the fight against vampires, since they could shoot wooden quarrels that acted as ranged stakes. He could tell, therefore, in an instant, that this one was broken. The metal barrel was twisted horribly around the wooden frame. If it could even fire anymore, the quarrel would let loose at an unpredictable angle. It was clearly out of commission, so even that thought wasn’t what caught Hank’s attention—it was wondering how the poor weapon could possibly have ended up this way.

“Yeah, I want to try this,” said Jean, hefting the cutlass.

“Then we’re going to start you out on these,” said Logan, producing a pair of practice swords from a cabinet behind him. Jean wilted a little.

“Do we have to?”

“If you want to keep all your limbs intact, and all Hank’s, and most importantly all of _mine_ , then yes,” said Logan. Jean made a face, but nodded understanding.

They meant just to grab lunch in going to the kitchen, but when they got there it was to find a pile of very real pumpkins on the kitchen table. Hank frowned.

“Where did these _come_ from?” Certainly there was no way Charles had gotten them, and he doubted it was Erik, either. Logan grinned.

“Told you I had shit to do.”

“You got us pumpkins?” Jean looked and sounded even more shocked than Hank felt.

“Well, you left me a pretty compelling hint all the way down the hall this morning,” said Logan dryly. “It’s Halloween. If you’re going to overdo it on the decorations, might as well do it properly. It’s not like we’re getting trick-or-treaters either way. I’ll see you two later for swordfighting lesson one.” And he stalked out of the room before they could so much as thank him.

“I didn’t know Logan could be _nice_ ,” said Jean. Hank just smiled. Behind the pumpkins, he had caught sight of a massive bowl of Halloween candy.

 

The graveyard was unchanged from earlier. A little soggier, maybe—Charles’ shoes squelched unpleasantly on the muddy grass—but there was still no sign of vampires, and he felt reasonably assured there would be no ghosts this time either.

“All right, let’s try again. Get this over with.” He shoved open the door to the mausoleum and gestured inside. “Go on.” Erik didn’t move—just stood there staring at him contemplatively. He had been doing that since they left the house. It was rather annoying. “ _What_?” Erik jumped.

“What? Nothing.” He looked away quickly, as if caught doing something wrong.

“…Right.” Not waiting any longer, Charles shoved the heavy door open a bit further and made his way in. The urns were still against the wall where they had left them. He cast them his most disparaging glance.

“Do you want them in the graveyard?” Erik asked doubtfully. “There are vaults in here.”

“In the graveyard…” Next to Father. Charles trailed off, unsure how to continue.

“What would they have wanted?” Erik prodded. Charles had barely had time to think this through on the most superficial level, let alone consider what anyone would have _wanted_ , but one answer came to him immediately, twisting his mouth into a harsh smirk.

“Well, _Kurt_ probably would have wanted the biggest cross available, and a big fucking statue right next to it,” he said. Erik raised a single eyebrow.

“I see,” was all he said.

“Cain would have done it.” Charles shook his head. “And Mother… mm, she would have agreed to it, probably, if she’d have bothered to think about it at all. I have no idea. What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Right.” Charles sighed. “Yeah, let’s—let’s put them in here. There are vaults. I can have them engraved some other time.”

“All right.” Erik hefted the urns into the vaults Charles chose, walking along the far wall. Then, thank god, that was done, and they could finally leave the mausoleum behind. With a glance at the sky outside, Erik put up the hood on the long raincoat he had worn this time.

“Really?” said Charles. “Looks to me like it might clear.”

“No, it’ll rain again,” said Erik rather obstinately. “Soon. See that cloud?” Charles rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. Let’s get back to the house, if you’re so worried about it.”

They walked back through the graveyard toward the fence. Charles strode ahead quickly, in even more sour a mood than usual, not really caring what he kicked or narrowly avoided tripping over, while Erik picked his way more carefully between crosses and obelisks and sarcophagi. At the gate, Charles turned to call out something impatient, only to find Erik a few feet away, standing with his hands shoved into his pockets, looking down at a pair of headstones that gleamed with leftover raindrops in the afternoon sun. Charles’ stomach turned unpleasantly as he realized which they were.

“What do you think your father would have wanted to come of them?” Erik asked almost sadly.

“What?”

“Your mother. And your stepfamily. Their remains. What do you think your father would have wanted?”

“I—” That was exactly the question Charles had been relieved to avoid in that discussion. “Probably he would have liked there to be bodies, honestly,” he said. “Didn’t believe in cremation.”

“That I understand,” said Erik quietly.

“Right.” Jewish. Charles had forgotten that detail. “He thought it was too much like the dust that comes of a vampire when you stake it, and lighting on fire—that’s consigned to vampires too. He would have been—” he sighed. “He would have wanted them out here. Mother, anyway. He would have wanted her next to him.”

“And your stepfather?”

“I don’t know.” Charles frowned. “Where Father would have wanted him? I—I truly don’t. They were friends, I guess—at least, colleagues. Both Watchers. I know I met Kurt when I was very young, not that I remember it myself. That was back in England, before we came here. Before—before Raven.”

“You said something, earlier,” said Erik. “About Kurt.”

“He was an asshole.” Charles shrugged. “That’s all there is to tell. I was lucky I could spend as much time away from him as I got to, between university and—everything else. He certainly couldn’t hold a candle to my father.”

“I see.”

“We ought to get back,” Charles started to say, with a glance toward the house—and a double-take. Erik had been right: the sky had darkened substantially while they had stood here, with nasty-looking clouds and the oncoming sunset. More importantly, though, every light in the house appeared to be flickering. Erik came up to stand next to him at the gate and watch it, too. “Maybe that exorcism didn’t work as well as we thought,” said Charles.

“You think?” Erik shoved open the gate and broke into a run. Charles blinked.

“Hey—wait—Erik!” And he followed, and hoped his legs didn’t give out again. That exorcism had taken quite a lot of magic, for not even working properly.

 

“Yeah,” said Hank, staring up at the menacing specters floating above them, “yeah, those are definitely ghosts.”

“Who you gonna call,” Jean muttered. “What can we do?”

“I don’t know,” said Hank. “You read about them way more recently than I have.”

“Oh, yeah!” She had forgotten until this moment. That was a while ago now. “Um. I never read about how to get rid of them, though. The book said the Slayer need not fear them…” It had also said ghosts were usually female, so this was weird enough already. Usually wasn’t _always_ , though. Probably these two were just the exception.

“Yeah, well, I fear them, so maybe we should figure that out.” Hank stepped hesitantly toward them. “Um. Hello, ghosts?”

“I bet Charlie gets along _great_ with this one,” said the ghost named Cain to the ghost of his father beside him. “Fuckin’ geeks.”

“Um—no, not so much,” said Hank, still polite. “Hi. My name is Hank. I’m a Watcher—”

“A _werewolf_ ,” said Kurt disgustedly. “God, the things Charles lets into this house these days—you and the other one, and—”

“Yeah. I may be a werewolf,” said Hank, steel emerging in his voice, “but I’m also a Watcher. Her Watcher, actually. And as one Watcher to another, I’ll ask you nicely this time. Please leave us alone.” Kurt _laughed._ It was the most chilling sound Jean had ever heard.

“I think not,” he said. “I’ve got an unfaithful coward of a stepson to haunt.” And with that, he and Cain vanished. Jean frowned. She had never known ghosts could do that, either—the book had said they were incorporeal and could go through walls. Then again, maybe the ghosts of Watchers were different. Charles clearly had a lot of magic. Maybe all Watchers were like that.

“Great.” Hank flopped down to sit on the stairs. Jean sat beside him. “What do we do now?”

“Who you gonna call?” Jean said again. Hank gave her a bemused look.

“I still don’t get that.”

“You’ve seriously never seen Ghostbusters?”

“Seriously.”

“‘Don’t cross the streams?’”

“Nope.”

“‘If someone asks if you’re a god, you say yes!’?”

“Never.” He shrugged. Jean shook her head.

“Wow. Your pop culture education is seriously lacking.”

“I went to school at the Watchers’ Academy. Most electronics don’t work there.”

“Where is it, Hogwarts?”

“Not quite.” Hank smiled faintly. “Though obviously there were werewolves around, none of them were teachers.”

“Oh, thank god. You _have_ read Harry Potter. I was about to give up all hope.”

“Those are books. We did have those.”

“Well, maybe someday, once they’ve rebuilt the organization a little, you can go become Professor Lupin. Except, McCoy.”

“Yeah, that’s likely.” Hank sighed. “We should find Logan. Or Erik. Or, speaking of professors, Charles.”

“Do we have to?”

“It’s him they’re haunting. Where he is, they’ll probably be too.”

“Fine.” Jean stood. Just then, the doors slammed open and Charles and Erik rushed in. “Speak of the devil.”

“What’s going on?” said Charles. “Are the ghosts back?”

“Yes, and—” Hank started to say, but then all the lights went out at once and Jean screamed, interrupting him. It occurred to her that she should probably work on not doing that. It wouldn’t help her much in the business of fighting vampires. “Okay,” Hank said instead. “Um, what do we do? The exorcism clearly didn’t work, so—”

“What?” said Charles distractedly, having gone over to fiddle with the light switch and frown at the chandelier. “Ectoplasm. Haven’t you read the book?”

“A long time ago,” Hank grumbled, “and I didn’t memorize it—agh!” The ghost of Kurt had appeared on the chandelier. Charles looked up at them, his face suddenly wide-eyed and frozen.

“Kurt,” he said. “Get—get out of my house.”

“ _Your_ house? This house was never meant to be _yours_ ,” the ghost snarled. “It was supposed to be mine. That was always the plan. Why do you think I told the vampire where the Slayer was hiding in the first place?”

“You—you _what_?” Suddenly the shock was gone, replaced by fury of a kind Jean had never imagined seeing on Charles’ face. It was a little terrifying. The ghost just smiled a cruel smile and floated down to hover near Charles, who actually threw a punch at him. He flew back, then, and laughed, and back and back and back until he vanished through a door below the staircase.

“Holy shit,” Hank breathed. “Where do we get ectoplasm?”

“Hell if I know,” said Charles through gritted teeth. “Try the attic.” And with that he dashed off past the staircase and through the door where the ghosts disappeared, into the wing none of them had ever been in. Jean, Hank, and Erik stared after him.

“I’ll just—go with him, shall I?” said Erik, who looked a little shaken behind his suspicious frown. “Good luck.” And he left, too, slamming the door behind him.

“Attic. Okay,” Hank muttered, and then he was running, too, up the stairs and away into the wing with the closest access.

“Wait—” Jean called uselessly, and took a few useless steps after him before she gave up. Where was Logan? The darkness felt very heavy all of a sudden, and there was still another ghost floating around somewhere, and— _ugh._

 

“Where _are_ you?” he heard Charles wail from somewhere beyond a slammed door. Erik opened the first one he saw, and turned down the corridor it hid. As he walked, he began to hear a series of muffled thumps. They grew louder, and intermingled with cursing, as he neared an open door off the corridor. The room beyond it held a large, looming desk, a little hard to pick out in the darkness. As his eyes adjusted he realized Charles was there, kicking it. “Fuck you,” he was saying, “fuck you, fuck you, what did you _mean_ , come _back_ , god, I’m going to fucking _kill_ you—”

“Good luck with that,” said Erik dryly, leaning on the doorframe. Charles glared at him.

“Again. I’ll kill him again. Hell, I’ll kill him a third time. I’ll kill him as many times as it takes to—” he broke off, gritting his teeth. Erik thought he saw a glimmer of tears.

“Bring back your own father? Yes, like I said, good luck with that.”

“Fuck _you_ , too,” Charles spat, and turned back to the desk. He sat down behind it and tugged at the top drawer, to no avail. “It’s locked. And his—of course, his keys melted in the explosion. _Shit_.”

“You hated him,” Erik observed.

“More than I hate anyone in the world, I think. Well, no—” Charles frowned. “I mean, there’s—but no, I actually did hate Kurt more, I think. He _had_ a soul, and he did all—he was that awful.”

“What did he do to you?” Erik asked quietly. Charles shrugged.

“Nothing I can show,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Apparently he killed my father. You’ve seen the results of that.”

“I thought a vampire killed your father.”

“And apparently Kurt led that vampire straight to us.” Charles sighed. “God. I need a drink.” And with that he stood up and brushed past Erik to walk back the way they had come.

“Uh—” Erik followed. Charles walked _fast_ , he thought, if Erik kept having to run to catch up—especially when he was a full five inches taller—“Er, is this really the time for alcohol?”

“It’s what my mother would have done.” That mouth twisted into a brutal sort of smirk. “That’s something he did. She never drank when my father was alive—what was that?” The pain left his tone entirely, replaced by fear as he flung out an arm across Erik’s chest to halt him just inside the corridor. Something moved in the main hallway, something light-colored that was a little chilling as it flashed by.

“You say you’d kill him again,” said Erik slowly, “but every time he shows up you’re paralyzed with fear.”

“Well.” Charles laughed, a single helpless, miserable note. “I guess I can show you that.”

 

Jean walked slowly down the big, dark, dusty hallway. It wasn’t like she had a lot of options, she figured: she could go after Hank and risk getting waylaid on the way to the attic; she could go looking for Logan and risk getting lost in some dark, creepy corner of the mansion where there also might be ghosts lurking; or she could follow in the very direction she had most recently seen a ghost heading. She was a Slayer. This was what she was supposed to do, right? Her destiny? Her superpower, as Hank had put it?

Something moved in her peripheral vision. She successfully held back a scream. Progress. When she calmed herself enough to look, there was nothing there.

“Happy Halloween, Jean,” she whispered into the darkness.

“Boo,” a voice whispered back.

 _Now_ she screamed.

 

The attic, thankfully, had candles and matches conveniently right there for the taking. Now _this_ felt like the Academy. Most of it had been at least modern enough to have electric lights, but the building was huge, and Hank was reasonably certain parts of it weren’t always there, and some of those parts seemed to date back to the middle of the nineteenth century—or earlier, even all the way to gothic stone wings probably remaining from when the place was first built in the thirteenth.

The familiarity somehow made the place less eerie. There had been storerooms at the Academy that looked like this, full of trunks and wardrobes and god, so many books. And here were the jars of potions and pickled things and yes, here at the end, magical ingredients and ointments. He moved the candle carefully along the shelf, reading little placards, some of which were clearly wrong. Or the contents of the jars in question had spoiled. Neither option really boded well.

Thankfully, when he reached the jar labeled ectoplasm, it looked exactly as he had expected: a sort of grey mist that looked an awful lot like a ghost but sloshed in a reassuringly fluid manner when he picked it up. Setting down the candle to free his hands, Hank opened the jar. It was odorless. The gaseous stuff became more liquid the more it moved, and slowly changed color until it glowed a sickly green. He held it away from the light, and the glow didn’t lessen. Of course it didn’t.

“Seems appropriate,” said Hank aloud. “Who needs Halloween decorations when we have this?”

“Yeah, yours were pretty stupid,” said Cain’s voice from just behind him. Instinctively Hank lashed out with the thing in hand—the jar of ectoplasm. It went all over the ghost. Hank braced himself for the expected implosion.

Nothing happened. The ghost frowned down at the splatter of goo on his chest.

“What the hell?” he said.

“You’re solid!” Hank realized. Ghosts were enigmas, sure, but of one thing he was absolutely certain: they were incorporeal. “You’re—oh my—” before the ghost—not a ghost—demon?—could react, he shut up, slammed the lid back on the jar, and ran. With an angry howl, the (yeah, he was going to call it a demon, he decided) followed. As he finally reached the bottom of a hair-raising flight of stairs, Hank nearly barreled into Logan.

“What the—you okay, bub?” The bigger werewolf held him at arm’s length. “What’s going on?”

“They’re not ghosts,” said Hank breathlessly. “They’re solid. They’re—I don’t know, some kind of demon. We’ve got to warn Charles—”

“Whoa.” Logan shoved him aside, eyes widening as Cain the ghost-demon-thing appeared right there, looking mad as hell. It reached out toward him as if to strike, but Logan was quicker: Hank watched as the brass knuckles became long, knife-like claws with an audible screech of metal on metal. They pierced the demon clean through the abdomen, emerging on the other side of his ribcage. _Holy shit. Holy—_ The demon’s ethereal light—what made it look like a ghost in the first place—glowed brighter, then brighter, and it made a choking noise, and the glow became too much and Hank had to look away as it disintegrated completely with a loud rushing noise. His gaze was caught by the jar of ectoplasm. More mist had appeared. It filled the jar now. He shook it slightly, and the mist began to coalesce green again.

“Amazing,” he said to Logan as he was grabbed by the shoulder and drug to standing again. “Apparently ectoplasm is self-regenerating. Do you know how few—”

“Awesome,” said Logan, cutting him off. “Science. Great. Don’t care. Let’s go help the idiots downstairs. Any idea where they might be?”

 

“Don’t be afraid, Slayer,” said the voice, which was distinctly, Jean realized, neither Kurt nor Cain. For one thing, it was female, and for another, it was very, very English. “I’m a real ghost. I won’t hurt you. I can’t.” Slowly, out of the darkness, a silvery, smiling figure bloomed. For an instant Jean was sure _this_ must be Raven’s ghost, for real this time, but—this woman looked far older. Hadn’t Raven been about her own age? This ghost was middle-aged.

“What do you mean, a _real_ ghost?” said Jean. “Who are you?”

“The creatures that have been haunting my poor son are just that—creatures,” said the ghost. “Incorporeal demons pretending to be the souls of my husband and stepson. Jean, I’m Sharon. I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

“You’re—you’re Xavier’s mom.”

“Yes.” Sharon’s ghost smiled sadly. Then her eyes went wide with fear—those were Charles’ eyes, Jean realized—at something over her shoulder. She turned to see Kurt floating at the other end of the hall.

“Sharon,” he said. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to, in the afterlife.”

“You stay away from us,” Sharon breathed. “Stay away from _him_.”

“Likely.” The ghost—demon—whatever—laughed. It was still horrifying.

“Come with me,” Sharon whispered to Jean. “He may have Kurt’s appearance and personality, but none of his memories. He doesn’t know this house like I do.” She beckoned, and Jean followed, running down a corridor and through a room and a hidden door and—they had clearly lost him. Suddenly she found herself in a bedroom where everything was floaty white lace—appropriately ghostly in the darkness.

“So this is the place you’re tied to?” said Jean. “After your—violent, unjust death. Right.” Sharon nodded approvingly.

“I take it Charles had you do your reading. Good.”

“It’s the only thing he’s had me do at all,” said Jean. “Hank’s been training me. Charles just—I don’t know what’s with him. He can’t be bothered.”

“He’s still mourning,” said Sharon softly. “My poor boy.”

“Well—I mean, I guess I get it.” Jean shrugged. “You died—pretty recently, still, right?”

“Oh, he’s not mourning me.” The ghost sighed. “He’s still mourning his father, and his sweet sister. He has been for years. For all I know, he always will be.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Jean hadn’t really considered that, but it explained… a lot. Almost everything, actually.

“You remind me a little of her,” Sharon mused, “from what I’ve seen of you.”

“What have you seen?” Jean frowned. “How long have you been watching?”

“Since you arrived.”

“…Oh. Right. Because you can make yourself invisible.” Jean frowned. “The book never said that.”

“The book never said a lot of things,” said Sharon sadly. “But you… it’s not just the Slayer powers, either, though that is, of course, a part of it. She was quite powerful. So are you. But Raven had the same mixture of sweet and sarcastic, I think.”

“I—okay.” Jean wondered what that meant. She supposed if she kept quiet, she might find out.

“She was always chafing at the bit, as it were.” Sharon bobbed a little in the air as she floated over to run an incorporeal hand down the curtains on the canopy bed that dominated the room. Looking around at the décor, it occurred to Jean to wonder if this had been Raven’s. “She didn’t like having to keep her powers, her existence, a secret. She and Charles were very isolated as children, you know—they were each other’s only friend, and consequently very close. After all, we could hardly have regular humans over for play-dates. She felt trapped. Confined.” She sighed. “Of course, that isolation got even worse when Charles went off to Oxford, and then _he_ came after us…”

“The vampire who killed her?” said Jean, but before she could get any further explanation they were interrupted by a series of shouts from somewhere out in the hallway. If ghosts could get paler, Sharon would have.

“Charles,” she whispered, and if she were alive she would have run, but as a ghost it was more like floating at high speed right through the door—a different door, of course, from the one they had entered by. Sometimes Jean really hated this house.

“He went _that_ way, damn it—” Charles was at the end of this hall, Erik beside him, holding him back.

“It’s not a ghost,” he was saying, “Charles, that thing didn’t—he was solid—” but Charles had wrested his way out of his hold, and in doing so, turned to see Jean and Sharon. He stopped dead and stared.

“Charles,” Sharon breathed again—well, not _breathed_ , Jean thought—she was dead, after all—

“Mother?” For a moment, he sounded like a child. Then there was a very loud rushing sound at the other end of the hall, and a blinding flash of light that left everyone blinking. When she looked again, Jean could barely see Sharon’s ethereal form through the bright spots on her pupils.

“They’re gone!” Hank called cheerily from somewhere not far off. “Logan killed them—oh my god, that’s a real ghost. That’s a real—”

“Charles,” said Sharon again. “Darling—” Then something green flashed behind her. It seemed to pulsate in her chest, around where the heart would be, swirling out through her—Jean was reminded suddenly of the blue magic, earlier—and she flickered—

“Mother—no—!” Charles reached out as if to touch the ghost, but with a soft sound like a sigh of release she disintegrated into ghostly ribbons of smoke that trailed blithely along the hall and back into a jar held by a horrified-looking Hank.

“I didn’t realize—” he said, but it was too late, and they all knew it. Charles stared at the place where his mother’s ghost had been for a moment longer. Then, slowly, his gaze slid up to Hank. They all braced themselves, but the Watcher said nothing, only turned on his heel and stalked away.

“Well,” said Logan. “That went _great_.”

 

It was late morning by the time anyone found the door to knock on. Charles had been up for hours already, sitting on the window-seat watching the sun rise slowly over the trees. For the first time in a long time, he felt genuinely hungry—like eating was something he actually desired, and wouldn’t do later just out of habitual self-preservation.

“Come in,” he called, when it occurred to him that everyone else in the house—well, except Logan, but Logan, he expected, would be the last of the other four to come looking for him—was far too polite to open a closed door unless bidden by person they were knocking for.

“Hi.” Hank slipped in almost flat against the wall, clearly braced for the worst. There was a lot of _worst_ to be given, probably, but Charles didn’t really feel it anymore.

Instead he said, “Good morning.”

“Happy November.” Hank looked at the floor. “I’m sorry I—um—”

“Ghostbusted my mother?” said Charles lightly. Hank looked up. “Do you know what ectoplasm is?” Charles asked gently.

“Um.” Hank gulped. “I’m not sure. I—I thought I had some idea, but I’d never seen it work before, and now I think it’s—maybe a little more complicated than I thought.”

“What makes it complicated?” said Charles. Some part of him that was very much the great Watcher Brian Xavier’s son wanted to see the boy work it out for himself.

“Um—well, it—it destroys ghosts,” said Hank. “But I had always assumed they—I don’t know, disappeared, or imploded. And I thought it was self-replicating after what happened to the demon, but then when I, uh, threw it on the actual ghost, she didn’t do that, she—disintegrated, I guess, and it disintegrated with her, and came back to the jar. So, it always reforms eventually?”

“Close,” said Charles. He stood and stretched. It felt good, after hours spent leaning on hard wood and cold glass. “Ectoplasm is what ghosts are made of, Hank. When you expose a ghost to it, the substance, minimal though it is, is absorbed back to its like. Ectoplasm attracts ectoplasm. It’s almost—magnetic, I suppose. The point is, all the ectoplasm you have in that jar once comprised other ghosts, that were dematerialized by others. When that happens, the spirit is released from the ectoplasm, and can finally move on.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t destroy my mother, Hank. You freed her. She’s no longer stuck here, in what, for her, is now the past.”

“Oh,” said Hank again. Charles looked him in the eye and said, very seriously,

“ _Thank you_.”

“Oh, um—of course.” Hank nodded nervously.

“Now if only I were a ghost, and someone could do the same for me.” Charles sighed. “For now, breakfast will do. Would you like some?”

“Erik’s already cooked a bunch of stuff,” said Hank. “It—I’m sure there’s some for you. Probably. _He_ likes you.” Charles raised his eyebrows.

“If you say so,” he said doubtfully. “I haven’t noticed, and in truth I can quite see why any of you wouldn’t, at this point. I am sorry for that.”

“O—okay,” said Hank, eyes widening. “Still.”

“Yes.” Charles walked past him, and out into the hall. The werewolf didn’t follow, so he peered back into the room. “Hey,” he said, “don’t cross the streams.” Hank rolled his eyes.

“Jean was saying that, too,” he said. “I still haven’t seen that movie.”

“What, never?” said Charles, surprised. “Well, you should, if you’re going to be running around with ectoplasm in hand. Surely we have a VHS around here somewhere.”

“It sounds like it’s sort of a Halloween movie,” said Hank. “Which, as a season, is now over.”

“Nonsense,” said Charles. “It’s an anytime movie.” As Hank finally moved, coming out the door and continuing down the hall, Charles cast a last glance over his childhood bedroom: the bed, the window seat, the old picture of Raven still sitting on the dresser.

It had been nagging at him all night, what the demon had said. _I told him where the Slayer was hiding._ It wasn’t Kurt, he knew—the demon had none of Kurt’s memories, not really—but something about the words still rang horribly true.

It hardly mattered now, when everyone involved was dead but him. With that thought, he shut the door; then, on second thought, he opened it again. This whole wing could use an airing-out and a good dusting. He might as well open it up again.

It was about time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Three chapters in. I had my concerns about how accessible this crossover would be to people in either fandom, so I'm happy to see at least some people have found and are enjoying it. 
> 
> I'm structuring this fic kind of like a season of a tv series, which is why the chapters (episodes) are so long. This story itself is supposed to function as season one, with more fics to come (hopefully) in a continuing series. So far the updating schedule has been running at a faster pace than I anticipate for the rest of it, since I want to put up chapters at about the same time of year when the stories take place (hence this one, on Halloween), and since the first chapter was chronologically in August and I posted almost a month later, that's meant a lot of playing catch-up. The next chapter probably won't go up until the end of November, so don't give up hope! It's just a very slow burn.
> 
> Comments are what encourage me to keep going, and a fic this size and scope takes a lot of time and effort, so please, please feel free to leave feedback! However you may feel.


	4. November | Grey Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving at the mansion is interrupted by an unexpected guest.

 

To Jean’s amazement, Charles Xavier was mashing potatoes. By hand. Standing at the kitchen counter, holding a massive metal bowl, pounding at its contents with a masher, one eye on the oven timer to make sure the pie (apple pecan) wouldn’t burn.

The last month had wrought a remarkable change in the Watcher. He had cut his hair short, but it was more than just that. He laughed; he came to meals; he did things around the house, which was looking increasingly clean and almost normal. Some days he even stood off to the side during training, giving suggestions and critiques. Jean thought Hank would have been just as happy if Charles took over entirely, but neither seemed willing to make a move towards so much as discussing it, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask. Wouldn’t have been polite.

Regardless, today wasn’t a training day: today was Thanksgiving. Not her first away from home—they had been on the run already, this time last year—but the first away from her family. It was a little weird to think about, but what was weirder was how… not weird… it was to experience. After just three months of living here, the people in this house felt almost as much like family as the family she had grown up with. Almost. Not quite. She still missed them more than anything. But somehow, when she was here—being in Westchester, in this house, in this kitchen, with these people—it didn’t seem so bad.

The timer went off and Charles set down the bowl to check on the pie, ducking under Hank’s arm where the younger Watcher was stirring a saucepan of cranberries.

“Looking good,” he reported, straightening up again as Erik appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “Needs a few more minutes.”

“And my turkey?” said Logan a touch dangerously. Charles rolled his eyes.

“It looks fine, Logan.”

“Good.” The big werewolf was oddly protective of the turkey considering in another couple of hours it would be mostly consumed. No one was sure where it had come from, either; all they knew was Logan had gone out yesterday morning and returned hours later carrying a big dead bird.

“God help us,” Erik muttered. Jean giggled. The rest of the kitchen ignored them. “Did you know it’s snowing?” Erik added. Jean looked up and realized the question was directed at her.

“It is?” She jumped up and ran over to peer through the drawn blinds on the window. It was hard to see at first, but when she turned her gaze on the darkness of the trees out towards the property line and the cemetery the whirling white flakes became instantly visible. “Snow!” Snow. Last year snow had been an ominous sight, a burden—not what one wanted on the roads when on the run from vampires. This year, it could be exciting.

“It’s not sticking,” Erik cautioned.

“Yet.” Jean turned back towards the stove. “Faoladh, it’s snowing!”

“I’m busy,” said Hank. “If it does start sticking, we can have a snowball fight tomorrow.”

“Good.” Jean brushed past Erik on her way out of the kitchen, and halfway down the hall she realized he had followed. “Hi.”

“Where are you going?”

“Outside.”

“It’s not sticking.”

“So? Just because _you’re_ too old to get excited by snow.” Erik glared at her. Jean frowned as a thought occurred to her. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Eighty-five,” said Erik dryly. Jean rolled her eyes. “At least put on a coat.”

“Fine, _Dad_.” She did grab her coat, and a bit of searching uncovered boots that miraculously fit her and a scarf as well. When she emerged from the closet, Erik was still standing in the same spot he had occupied before, gazing at her with a sort of faraway expression. “What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Let’s go.” He opened the door and gestured out into what was, by now, the growing darkness.

“Wait,” said Jean. “Who says you’re coming?”

“I do. Let’s go.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“The evidence suggests otherwise.”

“That was _once_ ,” said Jean. Erik raised an eyebrow.

“Are we talking about the graveyard, or the ghost?”

“The ghost was not my fault! And it’s not like I was in danger that time,” Jean pointed out. Erik shrugged.

“Let’s go outside.”

“Fine,” Jean grumbled, and stomped past him and through the front doors. As soon as she passed through them she was hit by a blast of frigid wind and a swirl of snowflakes alighting on her coat and in her hair. It occurred to her that she hadn’t bothered to look for gloves or mittens. That had probably been a mistake. Whatever.

She walked along the gravel path, letting the crunch under her feet break the silence brought on by snow. With it falling all around her she couldn’t really stay very annoyed. She glanced back at Erik, who was walking along much more quietly behind her.

“Aren’t you cold?” He hadn’t bothered to put on anything heavier than his usual leather jacket.

“No.”

“Oh. Okay.” Jean supposed the turtleneck was probably warm enough. “Do you like the snow?”

“I used to.”

“What happened?” The tall man looked at her as if she was very stupid. Jean wracked her brains for a minute, and it dawned on her. “Oh. Did—your family, and Shaw—was that in the winter?”

“Among other things.”

“Who was in your family that died?” Jean asked curiously. Erik stiffened. “I mean—you don’t have to—I was just wondering.”

“It’s fine,” he said curtly, and they walked in silence for a minute or two. Then, to her surprise, he said, “My parents were killed also, but I had a wife and daughter. They were the ones…”

“…Oh,” said Jean. The silence returned. Then she dared to ask, “How old was she? Your daughter.”

“Not yet two.”

“Oh.” She tried to think what to say to that. Nothing came but, “I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Long enough.” They had made a full circle around the house, passing under the cozy glow of bedroom windows and just outside the warm kitchen. “Are you ready to go back inside?” Erik asked as they stopped walking. Jean shrugged. Then she frowned. They were still on the path, but the snowy stillness was still broken by the crunch of gravel—a low, constant rumble that was getting louder. Just then, car headlights emerged from the trees to roll up the last of the driveway. Jean and Erik stood still and watched as the car came to a halt, the engine stopped, and someone climbed out. The gravel crunched some more as he walked up and into the light from the porch lamp. It hit his face and Jean shrieked. Professor John Grey grinned.

“Dad!”

“Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart.”

  


  


“Well, by all means,” said Charles, “do come in.” Jean’s father smiled, nodded politely, and made his way into the foyer.

“It’s a lovely house, Mr. Xavier. Er, Professor,” he corrected himself. Charles shook his head.

“You’re the Professor between us. And thanks, but my father kept it better.”

“Your father was a great man.”

“Did you know him?” said Charles, surprised.

“Mainly by reputation,” John Grey replied. “We met only once, not long before his untimely passing. He was the Watcher sent to coach us when we first found out my daughter was a Potential.” Charles blinked.

“Jean never said.” Nor did he recall the occasion, though surely he must have been here at the time—Potentials usually manifested around age seven, so Jean should have appeared before he went away to Oxford.

“I doubt she remembers it.” Her father smiled. “She was very young.”

“I was?” said Jean, shuffling snow off her boots on the doormat before kicking them off.

“It was many years ago. And look at you now,” said John. “Would you stop growing already?”

“Yeah, right.” Jean hugged him. Her father pressed his face into her hair for a long moment, then Jean pulled out of his hold to look at Charles. “He can come to dinner, right?”

“Of course,” said Charles, stifling a pang at the thought that he had been little older than Jean the last time he saw his own father, who being extremely British hadn’t much believed in Thanksgiving. As children, of course, Charles and Raven had gone to school together, and there they had made hand-turkeys and paper pilgrim hats, so they always came home and insisted they should at least have pie. Sharon would acquiesce and let them stuff themselves with pumpkin and apple while Brian sat them down to watch James Bond movies, grumbling about these damned colonies.

Tonight was completely different, he thought as they all sat down to dinner a short while later. This was a real Thanksgiving dinner, in a house filled with people—not a small, isolated family, but a gathering of friends almost entirely unrelated. At Charles’ right sat Jean, and across, beside Erik, sat her father. When he looked at them side-by-side Charles could see a clear resemblance. John’s graying hair was a more muted auburn beside his daughter’s flaming red, but they had the same smile.

“So Dad,” said Jean excitedly once they had all finished firsts of the food, “what’s going on at home? How are Mom and Sara?”

“Your mother’s well. And Sara’s enjoying school,” said Professor Grey. “She couldn’t make it home for Thanksgiving, unfortunately, but we expect to see her…” he frowned slightly. “At Christmas. Yes. I’m a forgetful old man, you know.” Jean did, evidently; she rolled her eyes and smiled affectionately.

“Sara?” said Charles.

“Jean’s older sister,” he explained. Charles blinked.

“I didn’t know she had one.”

“I did,” Hank put in from the other end of the table, “but I didn’t know her name.”

“Well,” said Professor Grey, “she’s in her second year at Wellesley, and she’ll be home for Christmas. Actually,” he said turning back to Jean, “your mother and I were wondering if you might like to come home then, too. With Mr. Xavier’s permission, of course,” he added. “Perhaps your Watcher could even join us, for safety’s sake.”

“Could we?” Jean asked, turning to look at Charles, wide-eyed with excitement. He felt rather as if under a spotlight, as not just Jean but everyone at the table looked at him expectantly.

“We’ll talk about it,” he finally managed. “Later. We’ll talk about it later. Christmas isn’t for a month, there’s plenty of time.”

“Okay.” Jean didn’t look too put-out as she returned to her turkey. The meal continued pleasantly; conversation picked back up at the other end of the table, and Professor Grey joined in, seeming terribly interested in the two werewolves. In all he seemed a pleasant man who loved his daughter—but there was a sense to him, Charles thought, of something dark and fearful. Or fearsome. He wasn’t always certain how to tell the difference, with people, though with the Professor he was fairly certain it was the former. It only made sense. Here before him was a man who had been on the run for at least a year now; for all he looked half-starved he barely touched his food, and his eyes darted quickly away from Charles’ whenever they met. Charles knew what that was like, that general distrust of people. He had been sinking into it on and off for years now. Jean and her cadre had been brought to him in a time when he had fallen so deep he had never expected anything could pull him out again.

But he was coming out of it, after all. It was good; lately he had been rather enjoying this business of moving on. They were all of them better off since his visitors had arrived: Hank, looking healthier and considerably happier than he had on arrival, Logan jovial and joking with the younger werewolf, Erik across the table actually smiling, if only by half, watching Jean and her father trade stories about the time since they had last seen each other. Then he glanced toward Charles, and their eyes met briefly; the smile widened in the instant before Erik looked away again.

“…so then the sun came up,” Jean was saying when Charles realized he should probably be paying attention to that, “and just in time—that’s the only reason we got away.”

“And you haven’t seen them since?” said Professor Grey worriedly. Jean nodded.

“Not at all. There was a thing with some demons pretending to be ghosts on Halloween, but I haven’t seen an actual vampire since the graveyard.”

“Good.” He sighed.

“Have you?”

“What? Oh, no,” said Professor Grey, “no, we’ve been laying low, your mother and I. There’s extra protection on the house, and we don’t like to leave that. Haven’t been outside much at all, of late. This trip was a very rare occasion. Your mother would have liked to come along, but…”

“I understand,” said Jean. “I haven’t been off this property since we arrived. It’s a little small at times, but I guess at least I’m safe.”

“And we’d rather you stayed safe, honey,” said her father. “All the same, you and Mr. Xavier should definitely think about coming upstate for Christmas.”

“We’ll consider it,” said Charles. “And Professor Grey, if you need a place to stay tonight, we certainly have plenty of room.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Professor Grey. “It would be nice to have a roof over my head.”

“Excellent,” said Charles. “Now, who wants pie?”

“Everyone, I should think,” said Hank.

“Erik, come help me?” said Chares. Erik looked up in surprise, but followed him without question. Once they were in the kitchen and the door was shut, Charles said, “What do you think?” in a low voice, wary of being heard in the next room.

“About what?” said Erik from the cupboard where they had put the pie, not taking such precautions.

“Christmas.”

“Don’t celebrate it,” he said absently, then, “oh. You mean—”

“Yes. I mean, do you think I should take Jean upstate to see her family?” Erik brought the pie over and, as Charles began to slice it, leaned on the counter so they half-faced each other.

“No,” he said flatly after a moment’s consideration. “I think to do so would be an unnecessary risk.”

“I agree.” Charles sighed. “But how do I tell Jean that?”

“Perhaps you talk it over with her father first, guardian to guardian.” Erik shrugged. “I’m sure if you explain the circumstances more fully he will agree, and then you don’t have to tell her alone.”

“That… makes perfect sense,” said Charles, a little surprised. “Thank you.” Erik nodded.

“Why me?” he asked quietly.

“Hm?”

“Why did you ask me?”

“Who else would I ask?” said Charles. “I trust your judgment, my friend.” Erik stared at him. “Is that such a surprise?”

“I—I suppose not.” Erik shook his head. “Er—I’ll just take this out there, shall I?” And he picked up the entire pie plate and left. Charles sighed.

“All right then.” He followed with the whipped cream.

Later, once everyone was finally finished and getting settled in bed, Charles glanced into the room where Professor Grey was staying and took him aside.

“I just don’t think Christmas is feasible,” he said. “It’s… an unnecessary risk. If you and your family would like to come to visit Jean down here sometime over the holiday, you would certainly be welcome.” The Professor sighed, and nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “I suppose I can talk it over with Elaine.”

“Do.” Charles smiled politely and turned to go.

“Thank you,” said Professor Grey. “For letting me stay.”

“Of course.” And that was that, Charles thought. Maturity wasn’t so hard. Then something heavy hit him in the head, and he thought no more.

 

Hank woke suddenly in the middle of the night. No reason for this was immediately apparent as he sat up and looked around his dark bedroom. The hall light was off; outside, when he padded to the window, was still silent and blanketed in white; when he sniffed, which was a lycanthropic instinct he was still, even now, getting used to, nothing smelled wrong. Still, something had pulled him from sleep…

There came a low rumbling from outside. After a moment he realized it was the sound of a car engine starting, followed by tires on the gravel drive. Jean’s father, leaving in the middle of the night? Something was decidedly off. Hank considered what to do for a split second before he followed his first instinct and went to wake Logan.

Perhaps he should wake up Charles first, he thought even as he knocked on Logan’s door; he was the Watcher, after all, and technically in charge. But though Charles had been doing more, lately, Hank still wouldn’t turn to him first in a crisis, and the longer he stood out here the longer this felt like a crisis.

“What the hell,” Logan rumbled, dragging open his door. “Hank? What _time_ is it?”

“I don’t know. Did you hear the car drive away?”

“Huh?”

“I think Professor Grey just left.”

“Left?” Logan frowned. “That’s… weird.”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s wake Chuck. See what he thinks of it.” Logan brushed past Hank and marched down the hall to Charles’ room, where he knocked once. No answer. He knocked again, louder. Hank glanced at Jean’s door and winced—surely they would wake her? Logan pounded hard on Charles’ door, and still nothing. Then he growled, turned the knob, and peered inside.

“Logan?”

“Shit.” Logan emerged looking as frightened as Hank had ever seen him. “He’s not there.”

“…Uh. That’s…”

“Yeah.” Eyebrows furrowed with concern, Logan turned to Jean’s door and knocked on that as well. “Jean? You in there?” There was no reply.

“I’d think you’d have woken her already,” said Hank, “loud as you were—um—” Logan opened that door, too, and a single glance inside revealed Jean’s bed mussed, blankets thrown to the floor, and the room completely empty.

“Shit,” said Logan again, and took off running towards the other end of the house. Hank gulped. If Erik was gone, too—

He wasn’t. Instead he answered his door almost before the first knock, wearing red pajamas and an expression that bordered on murderous.

“It’s one in the morning,” he said coldly. “What the _fuck_ could you possibly want?”

“Charles and Jean are gone,” said Logan shortly. “Professor Grey drove off, and they’re not in their beds.” Erik’s face slipped from furious to horrified in less than a second, and went even paler than usual.

“Give me ninety seconds,” he said, and shut the door in their faces. Hank counted, and it took only eighty-four before Erik reemerged fully dressed and alert. “You two get dressed,” he told them, and strode off back toward the rest of the bedrooms.

“Wait,” said Logan, starting after him, “who the hell put you in charge?”

“I did, seeing I’m the only person here with any idea how to handle this,” said Erik shortly. Logan grumbled all the way back to his room, but didn’t argue further.

Hank dressed quickly and came back out into the hall to find Erik shutting Jean’s bedroom door, looking deeply concerned. He paused on the threshold of Charles’ before he entered. Hank followed.

“What have you found?” he asked. Erik shook his head.

“He’s good,” he said. “He must have drugged or hypnotized her somehow. She might have gone with him willingly, but I doubt it, especially from the state of the room.”

“Wait—you think her dad _kidnapped_ her?” Hank exclaimed.

“Her and Charles, yes.” Erik paused next to the bed and frowned. “This is still perfectly made.” He turned on his heel and not walked but ran to the room where Professor Grey had been staying, and there flung open the door just as Logan reappeared.

“Smell anything, kid?” he said in a low voice. Hank sniffed the air. Yes—something was definitely wrong out here. Fear, people he knew—blood—yes, Erik flicked on the light in the guest room, revealing something dark spattered all over the floor just inside.

“Oh, god,” said Hank.

“Charles,” was all Erik said before he shoved past both werewolves and ran down the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Hank yelled, even as he and Logan followed.

“We’re going to track him,” said Erik when they caught up at the front doors. “Actually—you two are going to track them. Follow the scent. I have—” he frowned—“yes, I have someone else to find.”

“Wait, what—?”

“I have to go to Miami.”

“ _Miami?_ ”

“A former member of the Hellfire Club has a hideout there,” Erik told them as they made their way through the snow (by now rather heavy) toward the garage. “Janos. He owes me, and say what you will about demons, but even the soulless honor their debts. Usually.”

“Er—okay,” said Hank. “But—”

“Fine. You go there,” said Logan, shoving the massive garage door up and open as if it weighed nothing. “We’ll head upstate.” He walked over to a rack of keys, regarded them for a moment, then tossed Erik a set and nodded at the old car sitting at the center. “You take that. We’ll ride.” Hank looked around for another car, but to no avail; all he found was an admittedly awesome-looking motorcycle, which, yes, Logan was now examining, having taken down two heavy leather jackets from a rack beside it.

“Hang on,” said Hank, “we’re taking _that_? In the snow?”

“We’ll be fine,” said Logan.

“Why does Erik get the car?”

“He’s going to the Sunshine State.”

“Exactly!”

“It’s a longer trip, kid.” Logan shoved a leather jacket into his hands.

“Yes, but he doesn’t have to make it _in the snow,_ ” said Hank.

“Besides,” said Logan, ignoring him, “we’re a couple of tough and hardy werewolves. He needs the extra protection.” Erik growled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _by the time I’m through with you…_.

“But—”

“You really think this is the time to argue?” said Logan. Slowly and unwillingly, Hank shook his head. “Right. Now let’s get going.”

 

Jean woke bright and early the morning after Thanksgiving. Her room was a little cold, but then it often was—all throughout childhood the New York winters had managed to work their chilly way inside, in this corner of the house in particular. The problem, then, was that though she was awake she didn’t really want to get out of bed. Her quilt was warm, and in comparison the hardwood floor would be freezing.

Eventually, though, she had to get up. The smell of breakfast drifting up from the kitchen lured her out of the covers and down the stairs. In the kitchen, her mother was standing at the stove frying a pan full of leftover mashed potatoes. Jean stopped in the doorway, struck by déjà vu—she remembered watching someone mash them, but couldn’t think who. She shook her head, and it passed.

“Hey, sweetie.” Elaine glanced at her, smiling. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” said Jean.

“Great.” Elaine shuffled a heap of potatoes onto a plate and held it out. “Want some breakfast?”

 

Erik drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and glanced out his window toward the eastern horizon. Before him, Richmond was finally giving way to countryside again. That was good; the speed limit would go up, not that he was particularly concerned with it to begin with, and the faster he drove the faster he would get there.

For now the roads were as empty as they ever were just before dawn; though the season was late, sunrise still wouldn’t quite hit the morning traffic. It had been miles since Erik last saw another car on the road. The horizon was still only barely touched by the faintest line of golden light. He drove on. The next time he glanced at it, the light was gone, obscured entirely by clouds. Gradually, the clouds lightened; by the time he hit the North Carolina border they were perfectly white above him.

Then it started to rain. He supposed it was better than the alternative.

 

“Where are Dad and Sara?” Jean asked. Her mother looked up from her own breakfast.

“Shopping, remember?” she said. “It’s Black Friday.”

“Oh.” Right. She had forgotten. How could she forget? But her head felt fuzzy, like she had forgotten more than just that. It was like the feeling of waking up from a dream and instantly forgetting it…

“They left an hour ago,” Elaine continued. “Six AM. I swear, the sales just start earlier and earlier every year…” Her voice seemed to fade into the background. Jean kept half-grasping at snippets of memory, but nothing coalesced. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. As she did, she heard, “…sweetie? Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah.” Jean nodded, and shook her head to clear it. “I just… I think I had a dream…”

“Was it a nice dream?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Well, that happens.” Elaine shrugged. “Anyway, Jean, do you have any shopping to do?”

 

“It’s been six hours.” Hank rubbed at his eyes. “Are you sure this is the right house?”

“That’s the car, isn’t it?” Logan growled, jerking his head toward the station wagon sitting in the driveway. Hank shrugged.

“Probably. I didn’t really see it.”

“Well, it is.”

“Do you really think they’re going to leave the house?” said Hank doubtfully. “He said they rarely do—”

“Yeah, he said a lot of things,” said Logan darkly, “none of which I’m real inclined to believe at this point.”

“Oh. Right.” Hank shifted uncomfortably on the cold ground. Werewolf physiology meant he wasn’t exactly too cold or too tired, but sitting in the snow for hours on end still wasn’t especially pleasant. “Why do you think that was? Do you think he’s working with the—”

“Shh!” Logan hissed, suddenly flattening himself against the ground, dragging Hank down beside him with a thud. They lay perfectly still as Hank listened, ignoring the snow that had managed to get between his jacket collar and his neck, to the crunch of footsteps on the icy driveway. It was one set only, and somehow Hank could tell it was the Professor—something in his mind must have recorded his gait, even after meeting him only once. His common sense told him it was a predatory instinct, but the rest of him still didn’t like the thought. Then a car door was wrenched open and slammed shut again. With a few false starts the engine roared to life, and the ground they were on began to rumble beneath the snow. The car drove off and Logan sat up. “Kay,” he said, “let’s see where he’s goin’.”

“Oh—right.” Hank pulled out the tracking device Logan had spent a while searching for once Erik left Westchester last night and turned it on. A little screen showed their coordinates and the coordinates of the extension, which Logan had clipped to a hubcap on Professor Grey’s station wagon. The latter set of numbers was rapidly cycling through digits.

They waited perhaps ten minutes before the shifting numbers stopped.

“We got a place?” said Logan, snatching the device. “Let’s go.”

 

After breakfast, Jean wandered the house. For all she knew perfectly well she had been here yesterday, and the day before that—she had lived here all her life—in places it still felt like she was seeing it anew. The desk in her father’s library wasn’t against the wall she remembered, and she was reasonably certain the fabric on the dining room chairs had been green, not red. The more she looked around, the more she began to wonder if something was wrong.

She found her coat, boots, and mittens after some searching, and even then the boots weren’t her favorites. Those seemed to be missing entirely. That was disheartening in addition to disconcerting, especially when she could have sworn she had worn them just yesterday.

Outside, the snow was up past her ankles. Already; it was only Thanksgiving! That was a good sign, she thought. A good year for snow would mean more snow days, which would mean less school… School. She knew she had been there on Wednesday—of course she had—but it still felt like a long time ago. When she tried, she couldn’t really picture her friends’ faces.

She walked through the yard, up to where the lawn (hidden beneath the snow) gave way to a little woods that separated this neighborhood from the one adjacent. As she neared the shadow of the trees, she felt an odd sense of foreboding, like something bad would happen if she went in there. She frowned, squinting against the snow to peer into the shadows. All was still. Then it wasn’t—something moved in the shadows, and a tree shivered, dropping a little pile of snow down the back of her coat. Jean didn’t shriek, which was weird, because something in her said she should have, but instead turned and ran, which was also weird, because since when could she run this _fast_? She was at the back door almost before she knew what had happened.

“How’s the snow?” said Elaine.

“Cold,” said Jean, unsure what else to say. Now that she was inside, being scared by a breeze in the woods seemed silly. If she told her mother, she would surely agree.

“Looks like it.” Her mother frowned. “You look awfully pale. Would you like some hot chocolate?”

“Ooh, yes please.” That was normal. This was all normal. Jean felt calmer now. She started back towards the closet.

“Don’t put your snow things away, honey,” Elaine called. “They’re soaked. Take them down to the laundry room to dry, would you?”

“Yeah, okay.” Jean sighed. She pulled her boots off and did her best to avoid treading with her socks in the slush her footprints had left, then carried them to the basement door. When she tried the knob, it wouldn’t budge. “Mom, it’s… locked.”

“That’s strange.” Elaine frowned as she came over to try it herself, to no avail. “I’ll get you the key.”

 

A building loomed over the two werewolves, dark and abandoned. An old college hall, from the crumbling redbrick façade—more specifically, Leland Hall, from the stone placard above the doors. Several of the windows were shattered. The rest were just empty, aside from a few with skewed, broken blinds. The station wagon was the lone car parked at the crooked curb.

“Should we hide?” said Hank. The wind shivered, and a pile of snow slid off the roof to cascade down the side of the building. It landed on the motorcycle where they had left it below the eaves, away from the street. Great.

“Where?” Logan had a point—the building was on the edge of a deserted field. There was no cover in sight. For now all they could do was stand in the street and stare up at the windows, waiting for something to happen.

“Excuse me,” said a voice from behind them in a crisp English accent. “Are you lost?”

“Um.” Hank spun around. “No? Maybe.”

“Well, what are you looking for?” The voice came from a girl about Hank’s own age. She had purple hair and wore a Bard sweatshirt: a student. “I’m Betsy, by the way.”

“Hank,” he replied, “and this is Logan. We’re looking for Professor John Grey. Do you know where his office might be?”

“Grey?” Betsy frowned. “Grey…”

“Middle-aged?” Hank prodded. “Tall? Red hair, but starting to match his name?”

“I—I don’t know.” Betsy shook her head. “I can’t think of a Professor Grey, unless—oh! Right. He’s on sabbatical. I think he’s supposed to be back soon.” She glanced up at the building. “You won’t find him in Hellfire.” Hank stared at her.

“What did you call it?”

“Oh—um.” Betsy’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a guilty smile. “I—that’s just what they’ve been calling Leland this year. The English department moved out at the end of last semester, and they haven’t leveled the place yet, so some seniors snuck in and turned the second floor into party central. I’ve never been, but I know people call it Hellfire.”

Hank glanced at the building, and was about to turn back to ask Betsy something else when a faint light flickered behind a window on the fourth, topmost floor, drawing his full attention. He frowned. That window framed what looked, even from here, like velvet curtains, out of place next to the broken squalor of the rest of the building.

“…Huh.” Logan had noticed the same thing. “Let’s check that out.”

He bounded up to the building’s doors; Hank followed with somewhat less enthusiasm.

“Thank you,” he said, glancing at Betsy over his shoulder, only to find her following them. “Um—you really shouldn’t come with us. We’re just—”

“Do you mind? I’ve always wanted to see inside, and right now no one’s around.” She smiled hopefully, and Hank couldn’t think of anything he could possibly say to dissuade her and still sound innocuous, so he gritted his teeth and marched toward the doors, desperately hoping they weren’t about to get a regular person killed. The doors were unlocked and a little loose on their hinges as Logan pushed them open. Inside, a hall that clearly had once been welcoming was now drafty and moldering. Tattered posters still clung to the walls in places, held there by rusty tacks, staples, cobwebs, and habit.

“Nice place,” Logan snorted, and started toward the wide staircase before them. One of the middle steps had evidently caved in, and there was caution tape draped across the top of the once-grand stairs.

“Wait—!” Hank hissed, seizing the bigger werewolf’s arm and pulling him back. “It doesn’t look too stable. Let’s go that way.” He nodded at an arrow on the wall that, through a heavy layer of dust, read _elevator_.

“I don’t need no _watching_ , kid,” Logan grumbled, but followed compliantly to the end of the hall. Hank regarded the elevator with narrowed eyes. The steel doors and buttons gleamed in sharp contrast to the disrepair of the rest of the building.

“Not suspicious at all,” Hank remarked, and pressed the arrow pointing up. After a moment there was a soft _ding_ , and the doors slid open to reveal a similarly-shining interior. “Here goes nothing.”The werewolves and Betsy stepped inside, pressed the button for floor 4, and waited. The doors shut again, and up they went.

“So why didn’t you go home for Thanksgiving?” Hank asked half a second before it hit him. Betsy raised her eyebrows.

“Hello,” she said pointedly.

“Right. Obvious. Sorry.”

The elevator opened onto a floor not at all like the first. This hall was in perfect condition, carpeted in deep red and lined with wood-paneled walls. Betsy stepped out, looking around curiously, but Hank and Logan stood in the elevator just staring at it all for long enough that the doors started to close again. Hank stuck out an arm to stop them, and, jerked into action, they stepped out into the hall as well.

“Well,” said Hank. As the elevator closed again, he caught the sound of voices echoing from the end of the hall. Slowly the werewolves began to make their way along the carpeted corridor, sticking close to the wall. Hank glanced at the doors they passed: academic offices, it seemed, but with brass nameplates left blank.

Suddenly there was a loud thud, a groan from Logan, and before Hank knew it his face was pressed into one of those doors and someone was shoving something hard and slightly pointed against his back, right around the lower left ribcage.

“You, _Hank_ , are going to tell me what you and your fanged friends are doing up here,” Betsy hissed into his ear. A stake. That was what it was. Oh.

“You’re a Slayer,” said Hank.

“ _Obviously_.”

“We’re not vampires, kid,” Logan growled. “We’re w—”

“Watchers,” Hank said hastily. “My name is Hank McCoy, I attended the Watchers’ Academy until the destruction of the Council, the Slayer in my—er—partial charge is Professor Grey’s daughter, and if you stake me you’re going to end up with a lot of blood and a body to dump, not dust.” They stayed locked there for a terrifying moment. Then Betsy took the stake away. Hank turned to face her, only to have a large wooden cross shoved in his face. He blinked. “Hi.”

“McCoy. Vaguely familiar. Well, you’re not a vamp,” said Betsy suspiciously. “In that much, at least, you’re telling the truth.” She tossed it to Logan, who caught it without taking his glare from her face. “And neither are you. All right. Assuming this pattern of honesty continues, I imagine you’re looking into Hellfire for the same reason I am?”

“Er—why is that?” said Hank warily.

“Students have been vanishing,” Betsy explained as she offered Logan a hand, which he glared at still more ferociously and ignored, pushing himself to standing of his own accord. “At the beginning of the semester it was a few isolated incidents, but then the rate increased to one or two every weekend, then three, then four. Last weekend was the biggest party yet, right before everyone left for Thanksgiving, and as many as ten people missed their flights home.”

“So you figured you’d check it out this weekend, when the place would be dead,” said Hank.

“Possibly literally, yes.” Betsy smiled grimly. “My own Watcher didn’t want me to, but unfortunately for him he’s not back from Daddy’s mansion until tonight. And since you didn’t know, I’m guessing you have different reasons for being here.” Hank nodded.

“You said this place is called Hellfire—well, we’re looking for a group of vampires called the Hellfire Club,” he said. “They—wait. Did you say Professor Grey is on sabbatical?”

“Yes,” said Betsy. “His whole family is in France. But did you say you’re his daughter’s Watcher?”

“Well, in a sense,” said Hank, but before he could elaborate—or any of them could move—the voices at the end of the hall grew louder, and an office door opened. A blond woman dressed all in white stepped out, ushering along two men. Both parties stopped dead and stared at each other. Hank recognized all of them: Emma, Shaw, and… Professor Grey. Shit.

“Run.” Logan seized both Hank and Betsy by the arms and dragged them to the elevator in the same instant they heard Emma say,

“Go.” The doors opened, the werewolves and Slayer rushed in, and turned in time to see John Grey approaching them. Shaw and Emma hadn’t moved. As Logan pounded on the 1 button with a fist and the doors shut slowly—too slowly—Hank looked the Professor dead in the eyes.

Then those eyes changed.

 

“You.” Janos’ voice was a rasp as his fanged mouth slipped into a smirk. Erik just looked at him, careful to keep his face impassive. “I wondered if I’d ever see you again, Eisenhardt.”

Erik said nothing. Janos’ smirk became a frown.

“Do you have nothing to say to me?” he asked. “After all we went through?”

“Don’t you _dare_ —” Erik started to say, but stopped himself. Instead he said, “You owe me, Janos. Time to start your repayment.”

“What is it you want?” Janos frowned. “I remember the debt, but we never agreed on recompense.”

“I want you to tell me where Shaw is.” Erik smiled slightly, coldly. “I trust you remember him?”

“Who wants to know?” Janos’ eyes narrowed. Instantly Erik was leaning over him, fists clenched around the arms of Janos’ chair. The vampire’s eyes were very wide now, and he actually looked afraid. Something Erik didn’t want to remember stirred somewhere deep: he had forgotten how good it could feel to be feared. _And that will_ stay _forgotten,_ the better part of him snarled, and pushed it back down.

“ _I_ want to know,” he hissed. Janos nodded quickly.

“Si. Si. Comprendo. Shaw—he is in New York. At, at the college—he is still after the Grey girl.”

“Where in New York?”

“Her father’s college,” said Janos. “Her father—her father’s house. He has laid a trap—” Erik stepped back quickly, his entire body going cold.

“A trap,” he repeated. Janos nodded, and at that, Erik started to leave. A trap. He had to get back—

“Is that it? Is the debt repaid?” Janos said nervously. “Because you could find me here—we will have to move—”

“I’ll still find you,” said Erik. “And your new friends. It’s a talent of mine, and as to your debt—well, we’ve made a good start.” And he swept from the room as menacingly as he knew how.

 

Jean made her way slowly down the stairs. The basement was dark, and the light switch wasn’t until the very bottom. It had never bothered her before—she wasn’t afraid of the dark—but today, when she felt so uneasy already, it was a little scary having to step further and further down into chilly, unknowable blackness.

About halfway down, she decided to just toss her coat and boots in the general direction of the laundry area. That would do, right? And then she could run back up the stairs, and everything would be fine in the warm and well-lit rest of the house. So she did—she threw them, and heard them land in about the right place. She was halfway up the stairs again when the thud was followed by a low and very human groan. Frozen with sudden terror, Jean stopped dead on the stairs.

“What the…” the voice again. Male, and slurred, and—British? Jean steeled herself and crept back down the stairs. She flicked the light on. “Fuck!” A man was lying in the corner near the washing machine. He had brown hair and a beard, and his hands and ankles were bound together with duct tape. His eyes were screwed shut against the light, but slowly he opened them and looked up at her with blue eyes and a flicker of recognition. “…Jean?”

“How do you know my name?” said Jean, and pressed herself back against the basement wall.

“Oh, shit.” He closed his eyes again. “He did—something—did he wipe your memory? Shit. Shit, shit, shit—” His voice and tone were oddly polite, for a man whose vocabulary so far seemed to consist half of swearwords.

“Who are you and why are you tied—er, duct-taped—up in my basement?” said Jean. The man looked up at her.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “Jean—my name is Charles Xavier, and I was rather hoping you could answer that second question, but it seems your memory has been tampered with.” He glanced around as best he could from his position sideways on the floor. “I wonder if you could un-tape me, as it were? That would make this conversation considerably more pleasant for me, at least.”

“How do I know you aren’t dangerous?” Jean asked suspiciously. Charles Xavier raised an eyebrow.

“Do I look dangerous?” he asked.

“Not when you’re tied up with duct tape,” said Jean sensibly. He sighed.

“I suppose I see your point. Would you do it anyway?” Jean regarded him, still doubtful. He smiled very innocently. “Please?”

“Promise not to hurt me,” said Jean.

“Of course I won’t hurt you,” said Charles Xavier. “Even if I intended you harm, you’re a Slayer and I’ve been tied up on hard tile for at least one night and moreover am likely still concussed.” Now Jean had a chance to look at him more closely, there was a rather nasty-looking bump on his head.

“…All right.” She stepped down, rummaged through a junk drawer for scissors, and knelt to hack through the duct tape. Once it was removed, Mr. Xavier sat up slowly, groaning again, and prodded at his head wound gingerly.

“He certainly did me a number, didn’t he.” He shook his head, winced, and looked at Jean. Up close, he was younger than she had realized. “You didn’t question it when I said you were a Slayer,” he said.

“Well—” Jean frowned. “No, I didn’t.” Somehow it had sounded like the truth, and still did, though when she tried to think about it any memories associated with the word instantly slipped away like dreams. “I think there’s something wrong with me. Someone did something to my head.”

“Your father,” said Mr. Xavier. “He did something to my head, too, as you can see.” Jean frowned.

“But why would Dad want to mess with my memory?” she said. “Or—or hurt anyone?”

“That answer yet eludes me,” Mr. Xavier told her. “We’ll find out soon enough, I expect. Are any of the others here? Hank? Erik?” Jean shook her head.

“I don’t know those people,” she said. “I don’t actually know _you_ , so—”

“Right.” Mr. Xavier sighed. “Look, I think there’s something I can do to help you with that, if you’ll let me—it involves magic—” Jean nodded before she could even question the _magic_ part. Her common sense said magic didn’t exist, but on the other hand the word brought up more dreamlike lost memories again, so she suspected that for once her common sense was in fact lying to her.

“Please,” she said, and Mr. Xavier closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, they were entirely blue, and glowing. He held out a hand and pressed two fingers to her temple, and the glow flowed down his hand and into Jean’s head and suddenly—

 

Jean woke on the familiar white tiles of her childhood basement with Charles sitting next to her on the floor. She jolted upright and looked around.

“What happened?” she said. “Where—I went to sleep in—why are we at my house?”

“Damn.” Charles sighed. “He must have done whatever it was in your sleep, if you don’t know how we got here.”

“I think—I think I remember being in a car,” said Jean uncertainly. “Maybe. That’s it, though. Who’s _he_?”

“Your father,” said Charles. “He knocked me out, and the next thing I knew I was here getting hit in the stomach by a snowboot. Then you found me but didn’t recognize me, so I fixed your memory, and that brings you up to now.”

“…Okay.” Jean stood and went over to the basement door. She glanced up through the single window. Outside was white. “I think it’s daytime now. And very snowy.”

“Jean?” Her mother’s voice called down the stairs. “Jean, your father’s home! He’s brought guests! Come say hello!” Jean turned to Charles, whose eyes had widened in horror. He shook his head.

“Don’t,” he mouthed. Jean nodded numbly.

“Jean!” Her mother called more insistently.

“Don’t worry, Elaine,” said her father’s voice—but it wasn’t her father. Somehow she could tell. “She’ll be up in time. For now, I’d like you to meet my new colleague Sebastian Shaw.”

“A pleasure,” said another voice she knew. “Turn her.” Jean froze. There was a long silence. Then her mother screamed.

“Jean—!” Charles called as she raced up the stairs. “Don’t—” She slammed the basement door shut and locked it. Once, when she was little, she had accidentally locked herself inside, and then couldn’t figure out how to unlock it—she had been about three—but right now she was grateful that the basement locked from the inside.

“Jean?” Her father’s voice again, drawing nearer. He rattled the knob, and she heard a sigh. “Jean, open the door. There’s no call for this behavior.”

“Run,” said Jean to Charles, and dashed down to pull her boots and coat back on. He tried to stand, but—

“I can’t,” he said, oddly calmly. “Magic always takes it out of me. I just need a minute.”

“We don’t _have_ a minute!” Jean cried. Charles looked up at her worriedly. Then something in his face set.

“You go,” he said. “Find Erik. Or Hank, or—any of them, I’m sure they’ve figured it out by now.”

“But—”

“Don’t wait for me. If I make it, I make it.”

“What? No!”

“ _Go_.” He sounded almost dangerous as he said it, and Jean obeyed. She made it up the stairs and into the yard, and then someone dashed out of the trees, moving too fast for her to identify. The natural choice was to scream and run.

“Jean!” Hank’s legs were longer, and he barreled into her, knocking them both to the ground. “Oh, thank god—”

“Get Charles!” she yelled to Logan, who was right behind them. “He’s still down there, and they’re coming—” The big werewolf vanished into the stairwell and returned moments later with the Watcher slung over his shoulder.

“Vamps’re just about through that door,” he said. “Least that’ll keep ‘em distracted. You two ready?” He nodded to Hank, who stood, and a girl with purple hair Jean didn’t recognize, who clicked a lighter aflame.

“Ready for what?” Jean asked, looking from one to the other, and the look Hank gave her was so very, very sorry, and so very defeated—“No!”

“They’re vampires now, Jean,” said Charles gently. He was standing now, though leaning on Hank. “They’re soulless. Your parents are gone.” Jean shook her head.

“No.”

“No other choice,” said Logan, and nodded to the purple-haired girl. “Do it.” She tossed the lighter almost nonchalantly into a small puddle on the cement walk. Instantly it went up in flames that spread quickly from there along a trail that led around the house and up onto the wooden siding.

“No!” Jean screamed, and tried to run towards—something—her parents—her parents were gone—but Logan grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back as the others ran towards the other side of the yard. For a house covered in snow, her childhood home went up in flames very _fast_.

“Had to be done, kid,” said Logan. Jean could barely see the windows anymore—not through the smoke, and not through her tears.

“No,” she said again, faintly, and would have fallen to the ground if the werewolf hadn’t held her up to stand there and watch it burn.

 

“Christmas, then. A friend will come and get you. We can work out the details between now and then.”

“Thank you,” said Sara Grey faintly. “I—yes. Thank you, Mr. Xavier. Just—make sure Jean’s all right?”

“Of course.” Charles bit his lip. “Again, I am so very sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah. I mean, thank you. I—thank you. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Charles set down the phone, shaken. He supposed it was only reasonable: he had been on the receiving end of the same call at about the same age, so of course now he should have to be in the position of making it.

Jean hadn’t left her room since their return to Westchester. Even on the way back, Charles was the only one she would speak to—burning down her childhood home hadn’t been _his_ plan. In light of this, he had decided it would be most diplomatic not to tell Hank and Logan how very impressed he was by their resourcefulness in front of her.

“She’ll come around,” he had told Hank gently. The young werewolf was presently wandering everywhere with an air of deep and terrible guilt, which was really just as bad as Jean’s refusal to come out of her room. Charles hoped their rift would heal soon. In retrospect, he was beginning to realize, he had been quite foolish to think he could really just leave them to teach themselves how to deal with monsters _and_ how to be Watcher and Slayer.

“The best of luck to you,” he had told Betsy Braddock before they left. “Are you certain you don’t want to come and join us? You might be safer in Westchester than you are here. Most of the Hellfire Club is still out there.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she had said. “I like school, and if there are more vamps to be killed—well, someone’s got to be up here to handle them. I think my Watcher and I can take care of it.”

“Very well.” Charles nodded. “Just know you’re always welcome with us, and if you ever need help you should let us know. I imagine your Watcher will know how to reach me.”

“I imagine he will.” Betsy shot them all a quick salute. “It’s been fun. Hope we meet again someday.”

In the present, the dreaded phone call over with, Charles knocked on his own Slayer’s door. There was no reply; he knocked again.

“Jean?” he called gently. “It’s Charles.”

“ _You_ can come in,” he heard, muffled by the door.

“All right.” He turned the knob. It was unlocked. Slowly he opened the door and peered in.

Jean was curled on her bed, staring at the wall. Charles sat down gingerly at the foot of the bed, and the Slayer rolled over and sat up. She glanced at him for a moment—her eyes were red-rimmed—then turned her gaze on the duvet.

“Jean,” said Charles, “listen. I don’t imagine you’ll want to train with Hank for a while now—I don’t think he’s up to it at the moment, either—”

“I know. I’m not angry with him.” Jean looked up. “Or Logan, really. Not anymore. The Hellfire Club killed my parents, not them.”

“I—yes,” said Charles, surprised. “Good. That’s good. But Jean—there’s no guarantee that Shaw himself is truly gone, and even if he is there are still other members of the Hellfire Club out there who may want revenge.”

“I know,” said Jean again.

“…You know.”

“I hope they do want revenge,” Jean continued. “Because you’re going to teach me how to destroy them. Isn’t that what you came in to say?” She said it so _calmly_. It was a little chilling.

“I suppose so,” said Charles, more surprised by the moment. “In—in a sense. I suppose so.”

“Good.” Jean swung up off her bed. “Let’s start tomorrow.” She crossed the room to look down out the window. “Erik’s back. Well—the car’s back.”

“About time,” said Charles. “Where the hell has he _been_?” As if in answer, the door burst open.

“Miami.” Erik surveyed them both with an oddly intense look on his face. “You’re all right. Good.” That seemed more directed at Charles than Jean. “You got out of Shaw’s trap?”

“Barely,” said Charles.

“Not before he killed my family,” said Jean quietly. Erik leveled her a much more sympathetic gaze.

“Join the club,” he said, half dry and half kind. She smiled slightly.

“Tomorrow,” she said to Charles. He nodded.

“Tomorrow.” Whatever came next, he thought, everything had changed. The Slayer before him was not the girl who had arrived here three months ago—and nor was he the man who had met her then.

“Thank god you’re all right,” Erik muttered as they left Jean alone and stepped back into the hall.

“We are,” said Charles, “for the first time in—perhaps ever. At least, since the lot of you arrived.” Erik looked at him oddly for a moment. Then he nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Because there’s no way Shaw died in that fire. If I know him, he left the Greys to burn and found a way out.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Charles sighed. “We have a lot to face in the coming months, my friend.” Erik looked him up and down.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, and turned sharply to walk off down the hall—and for the first time in, perhaps, ever, Charles actually believed it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, this is a Buffy AU. It had to stop being fun and games eventually.
> 
> Posting this chapter later than anticipated, and next month's will probably be shorter than usual. Sorry about that, but it's finals time.


	5. December | Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, every one.

  


There was something very strange going on, Sara had decided. 

It began with the man who had come to get her from school. Very little of his skin was left exposed between gloves, hat, and scarf, which wasn’t unusual for New England in the winter, but then he didn’t take any of it off to drive, not even the gloves. She wondered if there was a reason he needed to be disguised. He said very little—only told her that his name was Erik and he was here to take her to the place where Jean was staying, the school Sara had been told about before, as he looked around nervously and pulled the hat down and the scarf up to hide himself further. Then he piled her bags into the trunk of a car that looked like it was probably from the seventies and drove off alarmingly quickly, muttering something about cloud cover. At their speed, a drive that ought to have taken three hours took barely more than two—and that was with the ground covered in snow, and a very, very weird detour. 

About an hour in, the man named Erik pulled off the interstate. At first Sara wondered if they were stopping for food or a restroom, but then he jerked the wheel to make a sudden hard right onto a rural lane that Sara wasn’t sure actually led anywhere. When she glanced out the windows to see what was going on, she saw that a sleek white car with extremely dark-tinted windows, out of place in this little patch of farmland, was following them down the bumpy drive. 

“Um,” she said. “What’s happening?” 

“Charles will explain it when we get to New York,” said Erik shortly. 

“Charles,” said Sara. “The guy I talked to on the phone before?” 

“Yes. Him.” He took another sharp turn, then another. After a few minutes they reached woods, and possibly New Hampshire. The snow lessened, but everything around them darkened under the trees, and the road went back to normal pavement—which was good, because that was when Erik started speeding again. After a few turns and a lot of winding they came out of the woods, to a small town, and then back to the interstate. The white car looked to be long gone, and aside from rather deeper creases in his forehead, Erik looked completely unshaken. The same didn’t hold true for Sara. It took her several minutes before she felt she could loosen her grip on the handle above her window. Then she tried again. 

“What was that about?” 

“Some people want to hurt Jean,” said Erik. 

“That’s who was following us?” 

“Yes. In the absence of your parents, we were afraid they might try to use you to get to her.” He glanced at her with a frown. Then he reached into the glove box, fumbled for a moment, and to her shock pulled out a wooden cross and held it up before her. Sara stared at it. 

“What is that?” 

“Good.” He tossed it back into the compartment and quickly shut it. “Don’t worry. Charles will explain everything when we get there.” 

Yes. There was _definitely_ something strange going on. Somehow, though, Sara felt a little better about it all now she had been through this… ordeal. 

At least now she knew she wasn’t the center of it all. 

  


  


“Look, faoladh!” Jean held up one of the gingerbread cookies, then set it quickly back on the baking sheet before it could burn her fingertips. “It’s a gingerbread werewolf.” 

“Reasonably certain that’s supposed to be a puppy,” said Hank. Jean made a face. 

“Fine. Logan!” she said, as the older werewolf stomped his way in from the snow. “We’re making gingerbread werewolves.” 

“ _Puppies._ ” 

“Gingerbread?” Logan sniffed the air, then came over and snatched three up in his massive hand. 

“Careful!” said Jean, “they’re—hot…” But he had already eaten them. “…Okay…” 

“They’re good. Thanks.” He ruffled Hank’s hair—Hank looked most displeased with this—and added, “you going to leave some out for Santa?” Jean and Hank looked at each other. 

“Aren’t we a little old for that?” said Hank. 

“To leave cookies for Santa?” Logan frowned. “I guess it might be hard for him to get in here, with all the wards on the place, but it’s probably a good idea to put some out just in case. Be prepared, you know?” 

“Uh… right,” said Jean, and the look she shared with Hank was a lot more confused this time. “In case Santa… comes down the chimney?” 

“After landing on the roof with his sleigh and reindeer,” Hank added knowingly. Logan nodded without a bit of uncertainty. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, chances are he won’t come, especially since you’re not _really_ kids anymore, but you never know. Personally, I hope he makes it. That would be _awesome._ ” With that pronouncement, he sauntered off out of the kitchen, whistling something that sounded suspiciously like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. 

“…Okay,” said Hank. “That was weird.” 

“It’s Logan,” said Jean. “When do you think Erik will be back?” Hank shrugged. 

“With your sister? I can’t say.” 

“Because you don’t know, or because it’s a secret?” 

“…Because I don’t know,” said Hank. “What, do you think there’s some kind of conspiracy here?” 

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Jean popped a cookie into her mouth experimentally—it had looked easy enough for Logan—and immediately felt her face twist as she struggled to chew and swallow it without burning anything. “God,” she said, “is he made of asbestos?” 

“Science has yet to find an answer,” Hank replied solemnly, and they both laughed. “When can we decorate them?” 

“They have to cool first,” said Jean. “A _lot_ , apparently. Before they’re ready.” 

“All right,” said Hank. “It’s neat that you know these things. They taught us a lot of things at the Watcher Academy, but cooking wasn’t one of them.” 

“Nah, I can see how Home Ec wouldn’t be first priority.” Jean smiled. “It’s not like I learned this at school, either. My mom baked a lot.” 

“…Oh.” Hank said nothing else. He still felt guilty, Jean knew. It was a touchy subject, one that they had spent the better part of a month avoiding. 

“It’s okay, you know,” she said. “I’m doing better with it.” 

“That’s good.” 

“Besides, soon Sara will be here,” she added. “Then it’ll be Christmas, and we can all just not have to think about things for a while, right?” 

“I guess,” said Hank. 

“A break,” Jean mused. “It’ll be nice.” 

  


“Erik!” Charles was practically bouncing up and down when they returned, standing on the steps awaiting their arrival as the car pulled up to the circle. “Hello. Oh, you must be Sara. It’s so nice to meet you! My name is Charles Xavier—we spoke on the phone.” 

“Yes.” Sara nodded nervously. “Um—Erik said you would explain everything?” 

“He will,” said Erik, and added to Charles, “She knows the… mundane version.” 

“Ah.” Charles nodded. “And everything checks out?” Erik nodded shortly. 

“Cross and all.” 

“Oh, good.” Charles looked relieved, and even more so when Sara crossed the threshold without a verbal invitation. “Just didn’t want a repeat of Thanksgiving, you know.” 

“Oh, I know,” said Erik. 

“Whoa,” said Sara, stopping in the middle of the foyer and looking around. Sometime between when Erik had left this morning and now, someone—Logan, logic dryly supplied—had hauled in a massive fir tree to dominate a corner of the hall just below the stairs. It stood yet undecorated. That would happen later, Erik imagined; he supposed he would spend the next week, in fact, standing in a corner and watching everyone else enjoy their holiday traditions. 

“So,” said Sara, drawing his attention back to her, “I hear everything’s going to be explained. What is there to tell?” Before either man could answer, however, Jean came running out of the kitchen to nearly bowl her sister over as she tackled her with a hug. For a moment they were just one shrieking mass of red hair and Christmas sweaters, and then they separated again to hold each other at arm’s length and look each other over. 

“You look tired,” said Jean. “Getting old?” 

“College does that to you,” said Sara. “You look—taller. And you feel a lot stronger, jeez, you almost broke my ribs there.” 

“Sorry,” said Jean, “but I am,” and, to Erik’s surprise, nothing to explain why. 

“I missed you,” Sara told her younger sister. “So, what’s going on around here? I know it’s your school or whatever, but what’s up with the—the mansion, and the teachers, and the crosses and stuff?” 

“Oh, it’s…” Jean shrugged and waved it aside. “It’s complicated. Who cares? It’s Christmas. Come have cookies!” 

“I—okay,” said Sara bemusedly, and let Jean pull her back towards the kitchen. Erik glanced at Charles, who shrugged. 

“I guess she doesn’t want her to know yet,” he said. 

“Why not?” said Erik, surprised. “It—this knowledge could help her survive. And why shouldn’t she want her sister to know the truth about her?” 

“As to the first point, she’s safe while she’s under this roof, so no reason to worry too much about that yet,” said Charles, “and… perhaps Jean just isn’t ready to let her sister know the whole truth. Ours is a jarring world to be let into, and many people simply can’t believe it at first.” 

“You think Sara won’t believe her?” said Erik, and wondered how the thought had never chanced to cross his mind. The supernatural was by now so fundamental a part of who he was, he supposed, that he couldn’t conceive anymore of how anyone could be skeptical. 

“I can’t say,” said Charles. “I don’t know Sara. But Jean looks up to her sister, I know—the opinion of an elder sibling means a lot—” his voice cracked slightly, and Erik pretended not to notice—“She might be afraid Sara will think she’s crazy, especially without readily available evidence of the supernatural save the preparations that, to the unaware, make us look unbelievably superstitious and paranoid. And even if she can convince Sara, it might not help. For some, seeing is believing—and once they’ve seen, too often what they see ends up being just too much to bear.” 

“You sound like you speak from experience,” said Erik carefully. Charles shrugged. 

“On multiple counts, I suppose. My younger sister was a Slayer, too.” 

“But you didn’t—that is, you already knew about the world going into it.” Charles nodded. 

“Ah. Yes, I did. My—my university girlfriend, on the other hand…” 

“Oh,” said Erik, once again surprised. “I see.” He hadn’t known about the university girlfriend, but there was no reason her existence should be so—jarring. 

“Well.” Charles sighed. “Regardless. Cuba was years ago. It doesn’t matter now.” 

“Cuba?” said Erik. But—no. He hadn’t been… 

“Oh, have you been there?” said Charles curiously. 

“The—the Hellfire Club spent some time there.” Erik shrugged. “If you want to hear a travel story, you should really ask me about Argentina.” At last, Charles smiled again. 

“Perhaps some other time,” he said. “Well, for now, at least, we’re off the hook as far as the explanation. I did, however, hear a rumor of cookies…” 

“You go ahead,” said Erik. “I could use some rest after that drive.” 

“Oh, I meant to ask,” said Charles, pausing before the door toward the kitchen. “Anything happen?” 

“Someone was definitely tailing us through most of Massachusetts,” said Erik. 

“Most of?” 

“I lost them.” He shrugged. Charles frowned. 

“Well, if you’re sure.” 

“Even if I didn’t, they can’t get onto the property,” said Erik. “And it’s not as if they didn’t already know we’re here.” Charles didn’t look at all comforted, but he nodded nonetheless. 

“Well—good that you lost them, I suppose,” he said. “I’ll see you later?” 

“Later.” Erik turned to go, but— 

“Oh! I just remembered,” said Charles suddenly. “You might—you might glance into the study.” He seemed oddly uncertain. Confused, Erik just nodded, and Charles vanished through the door before either could say anything else. 

He would have just started up the stairs, but something told him the thing in the sitting room was probably worth checking out. There was something almost foreboding, he thought, in the vague way Charles had suggested it. 

On the other hand, Erik decided when he peered through the door, perhaps he was just a very paranoid pessimist. He hadn’t been in this room since August, when it had been covered in dust. Now it was spotless, the wood polished and the upholstery cleaned, all very rich and warm and pleasant-looking, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the most obvious differences. To one side were set two chairs and a table—no, not merely a table, but a chess table, the board built into it, much nicer than the old wooden box that now lived in the basement for full moons. The pieces were already set. 

The table, though, wasn’t what made him stand frozen in shock for several seconds. That was the golden menorah at the center of the room, shining on the desk, entirely unexpected and unexpectedly… kind. 

  


“Oh—hi,” said a red-haired girl in the doorway, and Hank had to look twice to make sure he wasn’t seeing double. No—this must be Jean’s sister standing with her. 

“Er—hello,” he replied. “Sara, right?” 

“That’s me. Are you another student?” she asked. 

“I—yes,” said Hank, when Jean nodded emphatically at him from behind Sara’s shoulder. “Hank McCoy. Nice to meet you.” 

“Pleasure’s all mine.” Sara offered a hand, and he had to wipe flour from his before he shook it. “Um—are you the same grade as Jean?” 

“Same grade?” said Hank, confused for a moment before he realized she meant to ask if they would be in the same year of school. “Oh, no. No, I’m nineteen in April.” He said it and then wasn’t sure why he had felt the need to round up like that. 

“Are you a student, then, or an alumnus?” Now Sara looked confused, too. This entire conversation so far was enormously confusing. 

“Yes?” Hank tried, then added, “it’s sort of—complicated—to explain.” 

“I get the impression that a lot of things around here are that way,” said Sara, frowning from Hank to Jean. 

“It’s not school in quite the same order you’re used to, Sara,” said Jean quickly. “Here, have a cookie. Hank’s been decorating them.” 

“Oh, they’re so cute!” Sara smiled. She had quite a nice smile. “They’re puppies?” Hank waited for Jean to correct her, but she didn’t. 

“Christmasy puppies,” she said instead, and ate one herself. 

“Jean, what—?” Hank started to ask quietly, but she looked daggers at him and mouthed, _just go with it._ “O—okay.” 

“So is everyone else home on break?” Sara asked. It made sense, Hank thought, that they had told her this was a school—it was the most convenient cover—but it would still be strange to get used to pretending. 

“Yeah,” said Jean. “Hank and I were just the ones without anywhere else to go.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Sara, glancing at Hank. “Are your parents…?” 

“Somewhere in the Sahel, I think,” he said. Jean gave him a very weird look. It occurred to him that he had never actually talked to anyone else around here about his own family—Jean’s and Charles’ so dominated all their lives and thoughts that it hadn’t made a difference yet. No one had ever been curious before. “I never spend Christmas with my parents,” he added. “It’s always just too much trouble, even when they’re at home in England.” 

“That’s too bad,” said Sara, frowning. “Don’t you miss them? I know I was sorry just missing Thanksgiving this year. Well, until…” she trailed off and looked down. Hank shrugged. 

“Sometimes,” he said, mostly to break the now-awkward silence. “But I’ve always preferred school to home. Staying over the holidays just gives me more time to learn on my own, in peace.” Before anyone could say anything else, Charles walked in, and thank God. 

“So the cookies are out!” he said cheerfully. “Oh, look, you made w—wolves.” He caught himself. 

“Very artistic wolves,” said Sara. Jean giggled very strangely, just bordering on hysterically. Hank just nodded. 

“Yes, but no one’s eaten them yet. Well, except Logan, but that was when they were hot, and Jean has a theory that he’s made of asbestos—” 

“I’d be willing to test that theory,” Charles laughed. 

“Who’s Logan?” said Sara, just as the man in question stomped through the door to the grounds once again, even more covered in snow than he had been last time. Hank sort of wanted to ask what he had been doing; on the other hand, he also really, really didn’t. 

“What?” he said when he looked up and saw them all looking at him. “Did someone clone Jean when I wasn’t looking?” 

“Logan,” said Jean warily, “this is my sister Sara.” 

“Oh, right.” Logan nodded. “The one Lehnsherr was going to get.” 

“Lehnsherr?” said Sara. 

“Erik,” Charles supplied. 

“Oh, okay.” She nodded. “Um—so Logan, are you a, another student, or…?” 

“No,” said Jean quickly, “he’s a teacher. Mr. Howlett, technically, but we just call him Logan.” Logan, for his part, just stared at her for a moment, then looked askance at Hank, who smiled nervously and hoped the big werewolf would just go with it. He shrugged, at least, and went over to the sink to fill a jug with water. 

“What do you teach?” said Sara, looking him up and down. Now Logan turned his stare on her, and she wilted a little. 

“Art,” he said shortly, and stalked off toward the door to the rest of the house. 

“That makes sense, I guess,” she said, and turned back to the sheet of cookies. “He seems like an art teacher.” 

“Yeah,” Jean whispered. “He still believes in Santa Claus and everything.” Hank snorted. 

“He must be teaching you guys well, though,” Sara added, looking at the cookies. “They’re almost too pretty to eat.” 

“Thank you,” said Hank, surprised. 

“Aw, we can always make more,” said Jean, and hovered over the sheet for a moment before she selected one. She bit into it. “Oh, they’re really good! At least, this one is.” 

“You made them,” Hank reminded her. “I’m useless.” 

“I can’t imagine that’s true,” said Sara, giving him a very sweet smile before she turned to Charles. “What do you teach, Mr. Xavier?” 

“Oh, we don’t call him that,” said Jean blithely. “We call him Professor X.” When Hank looked at Charles for his reaction, he wasn’t really sure how to read him. 

“Biology,” the Watcher finally managed. “In addition to the administrative work, which—er, there is a bit of it that needs attention, if you’ll pardon me. Hank, could you—?” he gestured for Hank to follow him, and he did, gladly. Once they were outside of the kitchen he asked, 

“So, what…?” 

“It’s my impression that Jean doesn’t want to tell her sister the truth about her—our—situation just yet,” said Charles shortly, “so we’re going to respect that for the moment.” 

“Okay.” 

“Professor X,” Charles muttered, shaking his head. “Don’t tell Erik and Logan, all right? If I hear either of them calling me ‘Professor X’ of all things, I swear—” 

“What are we calling you now?” said Logan, and they barely avoided tripping over his legs where he was on the floor with his torso halfway under an enormous Christmas tree. 

“What on earth are you doing?” said Charles. 

“Watering the tree,” said Logan, tone indicating that should have been obvious. “Did I hear we’re supposed to call you Professor X now?” 

“Well—no, I’d really rather you didn’t—” Charles paused, clearly considering. “Though, actually, I suppose it is better than—” 

“Yeah, nice try, Chuck,” Logan snorted and pulled himself out from under the branches. “So how old is that sister of Jean’s, anyway?” Charles just gave him a look of the utmost disdain and walked on. Hank, not sure how to react to any of this, really, followed again. 

“Why doesn’t she want to tell?” he said. Charles shrugged. 

“On meeting the girl, did you especially wish to tell her you’re a werewolf?” 

“Definitely not,” said Hank. 

“I imagine Jean feels the same way about being the Slayer. And to her, Sara isn’t a stranger she’s just met—she’s her sister.” 

“Well, yes,” said Hank, “so I don’t see why it’s the same—why shouldn’t she want to tell her? Besides, being the Slayer is nothing to be ashamed of.” Charles gave him a sharp look. 

“Neither is being a werewolf,” he said. “But that’s not the point. Sara isn’t yet familiar with the world _we_ inhabit, Hank. Even if we tell her the truth now, it may take her a while to believe us.” 

  


The week went by mostly without event, at least aside from the normal eventfulness of the Christmas season. To Jean’s—not _delight_ , exactly, but certainly gratitude—everyone else went out of their way to go along with her pretense that this really was just a school. The weapons were stowed out of sight, the arcane books hidden behind ones that more resembled conventional textbooks. Hank, it turned out, actually owned and had brought with him several books Jean recognized from her brief time in high school, the massive books the honor roll seniors would carry around with them. Most of them were college-level texts about advanced math and sciences, and it seemed to her Hank actually enjoyed reading them. After a point, it wasn’t just for show. 

Once she walked into the library to find Hank, Sara, and Erik, of all people and all groups, bent over one of the textbooks. Jean wandered over and sat down at the table to listen to the conversation, only to realize within moments that she hardly understood a word of it. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning over to peer at the book. It was open to a page covered in formulae and numbers. 

“Electromagnetism,” said Hank after a moment, a delayed response. 

“They’ve been really helpful,” Sara added. “Erik… I don’t know, he just _gets_ it.” To Jean’s surprise, Erik, who normally looked vaguely as if he wanted to murder everything in sight, smiled at her sister. 

“I didn’t know you were studying physics,” said Jean. “I thought you were an English major.” Sara nodded. 

“I took an intro class to fulfill a science requirement last year and I got hooked,” she said. “I’d actually been thinking about maybe going to engineering school after my Bachelor’s, but…” she trailed off. “Seems a lot less likely now.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be great at whatever you do,” said Hank oddly quietly, and Sara smiled at him oddly shyly. 

“Thanks,” she said. Jean frowned. 

“You should be able to do whatever you want,” she said. Sara sighed. 

“Yeah, well, I wish that was how the world worked, but with Mom and Dad gone, who knows if I’ll be able to support myself through ‘whatever I want’,” she replied. Jean nodded silently and looked at the floor. After a few moments’ awkward silence, the conversation about the textbook started up again and Jean, knowing she would go unmissed, left. 

There was a fresh batch of cookies in the kitchen ready for frosting. The first one Jean picked up was a strange, puffy oblong shape that it took a moment to remember was supposed to be Santa Claus. She reached for red, and as she was frosting the hat a bit spattered on the face. She snickered, and added fangs. The door opened, and moments later Sara wrapped her arms around Jean’s shoulders from behind. 

“Hey,” she said. “Sorry I brought up Mom and Dad. Hank says it’s been really hard on you.” Jean shrugged. 

“It’s okay. I’m getting better.” 

“Maybe.” Sara rested her chin on Jean’s shoulder. “Is that a vampire Santa?” Jean nodded. “You’re a weird kid.” 

“You have no idea,” said Jean. 

“I guess I really don’t,” said Sara, sitting down at the kitchen table. “I feel like I’ve barely seen you in the past couple years. We barely talked while you were in England for Dad’s sabbatical, and even less since you’ve been here, even though it’s so much closer.” 

“Yeah,” said Jean noncommittally. 

“So tell me about it!” Sara leaned forward. “What was England like? What did you get to see?” 

“A lot of things,” said Jean, cycling back quickly through her memories of the hellish year past, trying to think of anything from the very brief periods while they actually were in England and not on the run around the world, trying desperately to evade the Bringers. “Um… Stonehenge, we went there. And, um, the new Globe. Dad loved that.” 

“I bet he did.” Sara smiled. “How was school there?” 

“Not that different from school here,” Jean lied through her teeth. “Just… school. Except no pledge of allegiance and different spelling.” 

“Fair enough. And this is the program to help you readjust?” 

“Yeah.” That was the lie they had come up with, right—she had almost forgotten. 

“It’s really nice,” said Sara. “Like—the building, and the grounds, and that.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Can I eat this cookie?” She picked up the vampire Santa. “Or are you saving it?” 

“Go ahead. I can always make another.” Jean smiled. 

“Vampire Santa.” Sara shook her head. “I’d watch that Christmas movie.” 

“No kidding,” said Jean, and silently hoped they wouldn’t find themselves _in_ that Christmas movie—at least, not until Sara was gone. 

“Can I make one?” Sara asked, licking the last crumbs of the vampire Santa from her fingers. 

“Sure.” Jean handed her two plain gingerbread people. Sara outlined clothes, giving one a green shirt and the other white, then picked up the red tube and gave them both long hair. 

“You and me,” she said, and set them on a plate beside the werewolf cookies with no idea just how representative of reality it was. “Merry Christmas.” 

  


Christmas Eve arrived with a fresh snowfall. Logan and the teenagers went outside to have a snowball fight, boys against girls, which Charles, watching from a window, at first thought wouldn’t be entirely fair: Sara was only a normal human, and on the opposite side Logan was just so much physically larger than any of the rest of the participants. As it turned out, though, brute strength alone was no match for Slayer reflexes, and Hank’s pacifist nature overtook his desire for competition by about fifteen minutes in. By half an hour a snow-covered Logan was starting to resemble the abominable snowman under the onslaught of the Grey girls while his own teammate stood watching at a safe distance. 

As the battle wound down, Charles turned away from the window and jumped—he hadn’t realized Erik was standing behind him. He, too, was watching the snowball fight, his expression almost wistful. 

“Brings back memories?” said Charles. Erik shrugged. 

“I always miss them most around the holidays,” he said. Charles nodded. 

“I feel the same. I’m sorry.” 

“It must be worse for you,” Erik demurred, “living in this house still.” 

“Sometimes.” Charles glanced back out the window. “I certainly know Logan’s pain. I’ve been hit by a Slayer with more snowballs than I could count.” 

“I can imagine.” Erik smiled slightly. They were awkwardly silent for a moment. 

“I hear there are still more cookies,” said Charles to break it. “The kitchen must be flooded with them, with all the batches the kids have been making.” 

“Yes, I heard they’ve moved on to demon Santas,” said Erik. “Do you think Jean has told Sara the truth yet?” Charles shook his head. 

“I can’t imagine she has. It couldn’t have gone over so smoothly.” 

“You never know,” said Erik. “Perhaps she’s just very, very open-minded.” 

“Jean couldn’t possibly have answered all the inevitable questions,” Charles pointed out. “Even the most open-minded have those.” 

“Like your girlfriend?” 

“ _Ex-_ girlfriend, substantially so,” said Charles, “but yes. Quite a lot of questions, actually. Moira was always very… excited, by the prospect of the supernatural.” 

“Moira.” Erik’s voice sounded very strange as he said her name. Charles almost thought he heard a hint of distaste, but that made no sense—there was no reason for it. 

“She’s a scientist,” he explained. “Biologist, to be specific, in genetics and evolution. The natural world fascinated her enough on its own, and the supernatural… well, being a scientist, she wanted to learn everything there was to know.” 

“You use the past tense,” Erik noted. Charles nodded. 

“I haven’t seen her in years,” he said, and for the first time in a while it struck him just how long it had been, after all. “Three—no, four years, actually, it was four years ago in October.” 

“What happened?” Erik asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.” 

“She got in too deep,” said Charles simply. “She saw too much, and it got to the point she couldn’t handle it. So she left. Lucky for her she had the option.” The ensuing silence was even more awkward than the last. Finally he said, in a voice that sounded too cheerful even to him, “well. Let’s see about those cookies, shall we?” 

“I’m not hungry,” said Erik, and turned and walked away without another word. 

  


“Jean.” The door creaked open ever so slightly and Sara’s voice came hissing through the darkness of Jean’s bedroom. “Are you awake?” 

“No,” said Jean, but heard the floorboards give ever so slightly as Sara crept toward her. 

“Let’s go downstairs, Jean. It’s almost midnight.” 

“And wait for Santa?” Jean sat up. “Aren’t we a little old for that?” 

“You mean you don’t believe in Santa anymore?” said Sara, mock-horrified. “What happened to my baby sister?” Jean wished she could believe in Santa, she thought grumpily to herself. With all the unpleasant things that weren’t just stories and really did exist in the world, it would be nice if a story so jolly and innocent as Santa Claus could be among them. 

Actually, she thought, with all those other things—vampires, werewolves, Slayers—who was to say that Santa didn’t exist? If he did they were still probably too old, but it couldn’t do any harm. 

“Fine.” She stood and shuffled her feet into slippers, retrieved a wrapped present from where she had hidden it in her nightstand, and followed Sara down the hall to the stairs. The Christmas tree lights were on at the bottom of the staircase, as if awaiting them. Though it was late, there was also a light on in the study: it glowed faintly under the door. Jean pressed a finger to her lips, and Sara nodded, grinning. 

When they were little, Jean and Sara had insisted on waiting up for Santa. Their parents always let them, knowing they would be asleep long before midnight arrived. Once Sara was in high school they had taken to going downstairs at midnight to place their own presents and shake the ones from their parents to see if they could tell what they were. 

Now the living room was different: a grand parlor in a mansion, a far cry from their cozy little house in Annandale-on-Hudson. Still, there was a couch, and a fireplace, and someone had even left out a plate of cookies. _Logan, probably_ , Jean thought, and stifled a giggle. They sat down on the couch. 

“We could eat those,” Sara whispered. Jean could see only her outline in the dim room. “Then in the morning it’ll look like Santa’s really been here.” 

“Okay.” Jean brought over the plate, which held three cookies: two gingerbread women and one of the puppy-werewolves. They each took a gingerbread and split the dog carefully in half. 

“I got you a present,” said Sara when the cookies were all gone. 

“Really?” she said, keeping her tones similarly hushed. “I got you something too. I brought it down.” 

“I brought yours, too.” Sara took a small, red-wrapped box from her pocket, and pressed it into Jean’s hand. She offered the book in return, and Sara set about unwrapping it as Jean carefully lifted the lid off her tiny box. It held a delicate gold necklace with a pendant shaped like some sort of a bird. “Interview with the Vampire?” Sara examined the book curiously. “Didn’t know you liked horror novels.” 

“Oh… Yeah. I didn’t know if you’d read that,” said Jean. It had seemed such a clever gift a few weeks ago, when she had built herself up to be able to tell Sara everything on first sight. That dream had since… faded. 

“I’ve heard of it. Never read it.” Sara examined the back. “Looks interesting. Thank you!” 

“Merry Christmas,” said Jean as she lifted the necklace from the box. “This is beautiful.” 

“It’s a phoenix,” Sara told her. “I figured, 2003 has been a really, really long year…” 

“No kidding.” Jean clasped the phoenix charm around her neck. 

“You’ve handled it really well, though,” Sara added, and once again Jean thought, _you have no idea._ “You’re rising from the ashes, I guess. That was why I picked it.” 

“Thank you.” Jean hugged her. Sara hugged back tightly. 

“I’m proud to have you as a sister.” 

“You too,” said Jean, and wondered if Sara still would be if she knew the truth. Perhaps now was the time to tell her—it certainly felt like it. 

Before she could say anything, though, their attention was drawn elsewhere as the edges of the fireplace started… glowing. 

  


Hank woke suddenly around midnight. For a few seconds he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, not sure why he was awake. Last time this happened, he realized with a horrible jolt, Jean and Charles had been kidnapped. With that thought came a strange tapping from somewhere above his head, and then a heavy _thump_. Hank jumped out of bed and ran to Logan’s room. 

“What the fuck do you want?” the bigger werewolf grumbled when Hank shook him. 

“Good. You’re awake.” 

“And you’re damn lucky I didn’t fuckin’ throw you across the room, kid. _Why_ am I awake?” 

“I heard something on the roof,” said Hank. Logan stared at him for a moment. 

“So Santa’s here,” he said. “Merry Christmas. Go the fuck back to sleep.” With that he rolled over and pulled the covers over his head. 

“Santa Claus doesn’t… exist…” he pointed out, and Logan sat up in bed. 

“The fuck are you talking about?” he said. “Santa Claus is real.” Hank blinked. 

“Um—well, all right then, maybe he does…? I did hear footsteps on the roof.” He shrugged, and turned to go. Logan frowned. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Back to bed,” said Hank. “If it’s just Santa Claus, there’s nothing to worry about, right?” 

“Not necessarily, but don’t you want to see him?” said Logan, and jumped out of bed to barrel towards the door and down the hall. Surprised, Hank followed. 

“Um—all right—what do you mean, _not necessarily_?” 

  


“You haven’t lit any of the candles,” Charles observed from the doorway. Erik sat in front of the desk, gazing at the menorah. The cloudy sky had grown dark hours ago, making it far too late to have lit them at the proper time. 

“I have this… thing,” he replied slowly. “About matches.” 

“Perhaps this will help?” Warm, gentle fingers unwrapped his hand from a clenched fist and pressed something into it. It took a moment for Erik to realize what it was, in his distraction—a red plastic lighter. 

“Oh,” he said. “Thank you.” He clicked the lighter on and off experimentally, and touched the top to the top wick. It burst into flame before his eyes. 

“I can’t understand how you’d never thought of it before,” said Charles a little bemusedly, sitting down in his desk chair. Erik shrugged. 

“It’s been a long time since I was at all observant.” Slowly, carefully, he took the shamash in hand and touched the tip to four—no, five, tonight—of the other candles. They sat in reverent silence for a while. Then, unexpectedly, Charles began to speak. 

“I never was.” He shrugged. “In Christianity, I mean. Crosses already had a strong, established meaning for me by the time I was old enough that my mother would have liked me to go to Sunday School, and it wasn’t holiness or sacrifice. And my father didn’t care; the church had a history of treating Slayers poorly. A girl in the fourteenth century saved her village from a vampire called Saint Just and the townspeople thanked her by sticking her in a bonfire, did you know? Her Watcher recorded it all in verse…” He trailed off, eyes trained on the desk until he looked up and met Erik’s. His eyes were so _extremely_ blue. “I could be devoutly scientific, though, so I turned there for answers instead. But in our world, science frequently comes up short. There’s no rational explanation for innate magic, or Potential, or even vampires… Yes, they’re all demon-based anomalies, but if you try to take it further you get stuck on the fact that demons themselves are scientific anomalies related to the multiverse, and end up trying to take quantum physics beyond… quantum physics itself, I don’t know.” He kept pausing, as if waiting for Erik to interject, but he found he had nothing to say—or at least, no desire to interrupt. He was a bit surprised to find himself enjoying this. Charles had a very pleasant voice, with that accent. 

“I suppose there still could be a key to it all somewhere, and I just never found it,” he continued. “Vampirism—a virus, perhaps, transferred through blood and saliva, but instead of killing you it makes you immortal and vicious. And some—some mutation that gives you supernatural abilities, another that makes you a superhuman. Just a slight change to the nucleotides that infuses the gene with power. That… that x-factor, the one no one’s managed to discover yet. I always thought it was inevitable that I would. After—after they died, you know, I decided to make it my life’s work, and worked myself half to death on it, that and the—the hunt.” He swallowed hard. Erik could see his Adam’s apple bob. “But.” 

“But?” 

“But eventually I had to give in to the fact that all the centrifuges in the world weren’t going to give me a formula to decipher why my sister died, and when, and how. Death is an unknown and inherently chaotic quantity… or, or it’s not a quantity at all, it’s inherently qualitative, so no wonder most Watchers study history or philosophy, and I was a short-sighted fool not to follow them.” 

“You seem to have become—not a bad philosopher, even without the degree,” Erik said after a moment, a little hoarsely. Charles smiled slightly, and looked down. 

“Oh, I read a little,” he said. “There were days when Nietzsche struck me as very wise indeed.” 

“Though a product of his German time,” Erik muttered. Charles blinked, and looked at the menorah. 

“Of course. I’m sorry.” 

“I’ll admit, I’ve always thought humans rather lamb-like. In the greater scheme, so far as there is one.” Erik leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms out in front of him, cracking his knuckles for what was surely the first time in a long time. 

“And demons, Slayers, witches… eagles?” 

“More in common between them than most people realize.” He shrugged. “All forced into shadow and submission by the self-centered morals of the sheep.” Charles was looking at him oddly. “What?” 

“Sometimes I think I’m starting to know you, and suddenly I find I don’t at all.” 

“I don’t know why you’d want to know me,” said Erik. 

“I’m not certain either, but I do.” Before Charles could say anything else, there was a series of very loud noises somewhere outside the study doors, and they were both out of their chairs in an instant, diverted from whatever direction the conversation would have taken—a road, in truth, that Erik was wholly unprepared to follow. He watched Charles run across the foyer, towards whatever danger awaited. He seemed so delicate, to bear so much. 

“ _Shit,_ ” he muttered, and followed. 

  


The pale red glow grew steadily brighter along the bricks, bringing with it the smell of burning sulfur. Jean froze; Sara looked more intrigued than frightened, but then she didn’t know to be. When it finally grew so bright as to be nearly blinding, there was a great rush of sound and suddenly a dark figure appeared silhouetted against the light. Jean scrambled backwards, climbing over the back of the couch in her haste to get away. Sara still seemed to be all curiosity, so Jean had to pull at her sleeve to get her to move back. 

“What _is_ that?” she said. 

“I have no idea,” said Jean, “but we should probably run. And get Charles. Run first.” 

“Running won’t save you, Slayer,” said a deep, vaguely Eastern European voice. The red light faded enough that they could see the illuminated figure: a tall, demonic man with red skin, wearing only black pants and boots. As he stepped down from the hearth, there was a great commotion back on the stairs and Logan and Hank came running into the room. The demon stopped short. 

“Howlett?” he said, his tone surprise. 

“That’s not Santa Claus,” said Hank. Logan laughed. 

“Sure it is,” he said. “How you doin’, Az?” 

“This visit is not a friendly one, Howlett,” said the demon. “I come for the girl.” He nodded at Jean, who blinked. 

“What?” she said. Instantly Logan’s expression slid from one of merriment to one of grim determination, and he came over to stand in front of her. 

“I don’t think so,” he said. 

“Orders are orders,” said the demon almost regretfully. “You should know better than to get in my way.” 

“Who’s ordering you?” Logan’s tone was one of confusion. The demon looked at him like he was an idiot. 

“Who has been chasing the girl since the summer?” 

“Shaw? We killed him!” 

“As if it were so easy,” said the demon. 

“Ugh. ‘Course it wasn’t. I knew you were friendly, but—now you're _working_ for Shaw?” Logan exclaimed. “Thought you were better than that.” 

“I owe Shaw.” The words came through gritted teeth, which Jean realized were pointed—all of them. She shrank back. 

“Don’t worry,” Sara whispered. “It’s going to be okay.” Jean looked at her. She _still_ had no idea—though this would probably leave them with no choice other than the truth. 

“I know,” she said. Sara blinked. 

“Of course he’d send you,” Logan was saying disgustedly. “You and that damn sleigh can get through any ward sorcery can dream up.” 

“These were the first in centuries to pose an actual challenge,” said the demon, looking up at the ceiling almost fondly. “It was… fun.” He turned his black gaze back on Jean. “Now, what I came for.” 

“What’s going on?” said Charles from the doorway, where he stood backed by Erik. That explained the light in the study. The demon looked actually _delighted_ to see him, for whatever reason—then Jean realized his focus was on Erik, who had gone stiff as a board. 

“You?” the demon cried. 

“Azazel,” said Erik coldly. 

"Wait," said Charles. "That's Azazel? _The_ Azazel, the one who sold the Greys to Shaw?" Logan turned to stare at him, horrified.

"He did what?"

“My friend, it has been too long!” The demon—Azazel—was still smiling, if less so in confusion. He started to move toward Erik and Charles, but was stopped in his tracks when Erik hissed, 

“ _Get out._ ” 

“You know I cannot,” said Azazel. “Step aside, Howlett.” 

“No,” Logan growled. The demon sighed. 

“Fine,” he said, and with another rushing sound and a few wisps of sulfurous smoke he was in another place entirely, standing right next to Jean. He tried to grab her arm, and though by all rights she should have been paralyzed by shock, her Slayer reflexes kicked in and she ducked under his arm. He went for the two knives she now saw strapped to his belt, but again she was too fast, and managed to seize the hilts and draw them first. The demon growled, low in his throat, and lunged, evidently deciding his larger size alone should be enough to overpower her. She ducked again, but his tail—apparently he had a tail, a pointed one—came up and wrapped around her neck, the very sharp tip pressed up against her throat. 

She heard the rush coming, felt whatever magic it was pulling at her as the air filled with the acrid smell of sulfur, but before it could pull through she struck. The tail uncoiled instantly and fell limp to the ground, separated from what was now a bleeding stump. The sound Azazel made then was awful, unearthly, and through the scream she somehow heard the words _you’ll pay for this, Slayer_ before the magic took and the demon vanished. 

They all stood in silence for a few moments. The red tail lay on the floor, motionless, and everyone was staring at her—everyone but Sara, who was pressed against a wall, staring at the tail in horror. 

“What—what was that?” she asked. 

  


“ _Awesome_ ,” said Logan. From the doorway, Charles cast him an exasperated look. 

“Jean?” he said, turning to her. “I think now is the time.” Jean nodded, and Charles saw she was shaking. Shock. He knew it well; so did she, by now, he supposed. It was most unfortunate, how frequently she had been in such situations, lately. “We’ll leave you alone,” Charles added more kindly as he came over to gently remove the swords from her tightly-clenched hands. She shook her head. 

“Please don’t,” she begged, and it came out barely more than a whisper. After a second’s hesitation, slowly, Charles nodded. 

“All right,” he said. “Then we’ll stay. But will you sit down? Both of you?” Jean moved slowly and carefully to sit back down on the couch. After a moment, Sara followed, sticking to the other end. Behind them, Logan picked up the tail from the floor and looked at it with great interest, while Erik looked on with an expression that spoke of nausea. 

“So what just happened?” said Sara again. She seemed remarkably calm. That was probably shock, too. Charles looked at Jean, who sighed. 

“This isn’t really my school,” she said. “I, um—there’s this whole world you know nothing about, Sara, that I didn’t know about either til last year, and it’s full of all the things that are only in books for you.” Sara looked down at a book that sat on the couch in a pile of wrapping paper. _Interview with a Vampire._ In any other circumstance, Charles probably would have laughed. 

“So what was… that?” she said quietly. Jean looked askance at Charles. 

“A demon,” he quickly supplied. “By the name of Azazel, evidently, though I’ve never encountered him before—Logan seems to have?” The werewolf gave a short, sharp nod. “And Erik?” He didn’t respond; his eyes were fixed on the floor. Charles frowned, and decided it could wait. 

“And what are you?” Sara turned to Jean. Her face looked carefully neutral, but her eyes were full of fear, and kept darting away. Jean looked like she was about to vomit. For once Charles regretted the tradeoff, the magic that meant he couldn’t send her any mental encouragement. 

“A Slayer,” she said. “One of—a lot. There used to be only one, but then some magic happened and now there are a bunch.” 

“A Slayer,” Sara repeated. “Like, a vampire slayer?” 

“Exactly.” Jean nodded. “I—we—fight demons. We’re the good guys.” 

“Are you all Slayers?” Sara looked around at the assembled group. Charles laughed, kept the sound deliberately blithe in the tense silence of the room. 

“No,” he said. “Only women can become Slayers.” 

“Well, that’s kind of cool,” said Sara, and smiled. She had yet to meet Jean’s eyes, but at least she looked a little more comfortable with it. “What are the rest of you, then?” 

“Well,” said Charles, “I’m a Watcher, the authority figure to a Slayer. My job is to train, direct, and look after Jean. Hank… is in training to become one as well.” Sara glanced at Hank, who smiled weakly in relief. 

“And what about them?” she asked, nodding toward Logan and Erik. 

“Logan is a werewolf,” said Charles simply, and Sara’s eyes went very wide again. “Don’t worry—he’s far more dangerous as a human, really. And Erik is an expert on the vampires who are hunting Jean, and who killed your parents.” 

“Wait, what?” Sara sat back against the arm of the couch, and finally looked at Jean. “Mom and Dad…” Jean looked away. 

“Were murdered by the associates of a very old, wealthy, and quite wicked vampire named Shaw,” Charles supplied. 

“But—the housefire—” 

“Was an attempt to kill those vampires that, from what Azazel said, seems to have failed.” Erik’s face and voice were grim in equal measure when at last he spoke again. Charles tried to catch his eye, to give him a questioning look, but he wouldn’t take it; he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the couch. 

“So, the people in the white car…” said Sara. He nodded. “…Oh.” 

“If you feel unsafe going back to school with what you now know, we can make other arrangements,” Charles told her gently. “We can also arrange for you to be protected while there.” 

“I think I’d like that,” said Sara. “The second option.” Charles nodded. 

“I’ll make some calls, then.” He turned to Jean, who looked very much as if she was dreading having to speak again.“Is there anything you would like to say?” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” said Jean after a moment, in a very small voice. Sara looked down. 

“I guess I don’t really get why you didn’t,” she said. “Did you think I wouldn’t believe you?” 

“Would you have?” said Jean doubtfully. Sara shrugged. 

“I don’t know, but I wish you would have told me,” she said. “Actually, I wish _Dad_ would have just told me from the beginning what was going on. Now it’s too late for that.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Jean again. Sara nodded. 

“I… need to think,” she said. “I think I’d like to go to bed now.” 

“All right.” Charles stepped aside to let her pass without another word. Jean stared at the floor as her sister left the room. With a glance at each other, Hank and Logan left the room as well, leaving only Erik in the doorway and Charles standing by the fireplace. “That could have been much worse,” he pointed out. Jean nodded. 

“I know.” She stood a little shakily. He caught her arm to steady her. 

“You ought to get some sleep, too,” he told her. “I promise things will look better in the morning.” To his surprise, Jean hugged him. Charles hugged back rather awkwardly. “You did very well fighting the demon,” he told her. “I think we were all very impressed.” 

“Thank you,” said Jean dully as she let him go. “Good night.” 

“Merry Christmas,” said Charles to her retreating back, and then it was just him and Erik in the room. He was trying to think what to say, but then Erik walked away without so much as a glance in his direction, and he was alone in the living room. Charles sank onto the couch and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to process. He gave up on that in short order, and on a whim he picked up the book lying beside him to flip through it for a distraction. His eye was caught by a familiar name in the pages and he snapped it shut and tossed it aside, horrified. At Christmas, of all times, that was a reminder he didn’t need. 

This room had been shut, he realized, until tonight; he hadn’t entered it in years, and frankly he wasn’t certain his mother had either. He realized it when he noticed that there was still a picture of him and Raven sitting on the mantel. 

  


Boxing Day was roughly a new moon. Those always made Hank strangely restless, even when they didn’t fall after a very tense Christmas Day where everyone pretty much stayed in their own rooms and didn’t talk to each other. 

“It doesn’t seem very festive,” he had remarked to Charles, who shrugged. 

“Reminds me of when the Markos were alive,” he said dully, and Hank didn’t dare tread on that thin ice again. 

“Thank you for not telling her,” he said instead. Charles shrugged. 

“Logan’s comfortable with it, but I know you’re not, entirely, not yet. It’s your truth to tell when you choose to tell it.” 

“Well, thank you.” 

“Of course.” Charles looked at him very seriously. “I do know what I’m doing sometimes, you know. I have a great deal of experience with this kind of secret. This kind, and—others…” he trailed off, suddenly far away. It was always sort of unnerving when he did that. 

“I know you know what you’re doing,” said Hank, drawing him back. “You’re not like you were back in August when we first met you, not anymore. You’re… you’re better.” Charles nodded. 

“I suppose I am,” he said. “Finally. I am… I am getting better.” He looked at Hank appraisingly. “Are you?” 

“Am I what?” 

“Getting better. More accustomed to lycanthropy?” 

“Oh.” Hank considered it, and considered the look on Sara’s face last night when Charles told her what Logan was. Fear: her first reaction had been fear. And it was only reasonable that it should be. He looked away. Charles sighed. 

“That’s what I feared.” He patted Hank’s shoulder. “You’ll get there someday.” 

“Maybe,” Hank muttered, and, spirits suddenly low, returned to his own room. 

This morning was just as quiet. Sara was due to leave around noon, to spend the rest of her break with a friend in New York City. Hank liked this plan; it meant she wouldn’t be here through a full moon, and after tomorrow they could get back to training. He was looking forward to training again. After two weeks of inactivity, intellectually stimulating though it had been, he felt physically very much out of practice. Though Jean had been fast enough against Azazel on Christmas Eve he was sure she could use a refresher as well, he thought as he poked with a spatula at a pan full of scrambled eggs, one of the few foods he was reliably able to cook for himself. Normally Erik would be present to cook breakfast for whomever—one of his unexpected kindnesses—but for whatever reason he had been just as absent from the house at large as Jean and Sara for the past two days. 

“Hey.” Suddenly Sara stood in the doorway. 

“Good morning,” said Hank. “How are you?” 

“As well as can be, probably.” She came and sat down at the kitchen table. 

“Would you like anything?” he asked, gesturing around at the kitchen, the food. She shook her head. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Are you?” 

“I will be.” She looked down. “I wish she’d told me sooner, so we’d have had more time to process.” Hank nodded. “I wish she hadn’t been so _scared_ to tell me,” Sara added. “No one should have to be.” Hank opened his mouth and closed it again. He could do it: he could tell her. It was the perfect segue. All he had to say was _there is one thing Charles didn’t mention_ … 

He didn’t. Instead he sat down across the table from her, and ate his eggs, and had a slightly awkward but very interesting conversation about demons and quantum physics. On schedule, everyone came downstairs to say their goodbyes, and the moment was long gone. 

“I’ll call when I get there,” Sara promised Jean, who just nodded. “Be safe.” 

“You too.” They hugged each other tight, but said nothing else. Then Sara was out the door and getting into the car so Erik could drive her to the city. Jean smiled weakly and waved goodbye. 

“You okay?” Hank asked her. Slowly, she nodded. 

“I think I am.” She smiled at him, and it only looked a little forced. “It’s better that she knows, now, and we can talk about it more later, once there’s been a little distance.” 

“All right.” Hank watched the car vanish around the first curve of the long driveway. Jean nudged him in the ribs. “What?” 

“You _like_ each other,” she said. Hank rolled his eyes. 

“Are you twelve?” 

“Maybe, but I don’t hit like it.” 

“True.” Hank grinned. “You know Charles put the swords you stole in the armory? In his dad’s collection of awesome weapons with backstories.” 

“Really?” said Jean, lighting up in a way she hadn’t in weeks. “Show me!” Hank followed her back inside. His chest suddenly felt much lighter. Finally— _finally_ —they could get back to normal. 

  


A white car with smoked black windows followed them all the way to New York, but Erik decided not to comment. There was no need to frighten the girl any more than everyone already had; he would just have to make sure she got inside quickly once they reached their destination. 

As it turned out, it wasn’t a problem. On a busy and very upper-class street in Manhattan, the white car unexpectedly turned into a parking garage and vanished. Erik looked at the street number to make sure it was burned into his memory, and drove on. 

“Thank you,” said Sara sincerely, with an air of great relief, once they were outside her friend’s front door. “For everything.” Erik nodded. 

“Of course.” 

“Watch out for her, please?” Sara added. “Make sure she’s all right.” 

“There’s no one in that house who wouldn’t protect Jean to the last,” Erik told her. Sara nodded, and paused. 

“What’s your motivation?” she asked. “For being there. If you don’t mind.” Erik paused, and considered his words carefully. 

“I’ve seen what they can do to people,” he said slowly. “Vampires in general, but especially Shaw. What they do to Slayers, and Slayers’ families. Everyone’s families. I’ve seen it frequently, from far closer a distance than I’d like, and I swore never to let it happen again.” Sara looked down. 

“Well, thank you,” she said again when she looked back at him. Then the door opened, and a young woman pulled her inside with a happy shriek, and Erik walked down the steps and got in the car. He sat there for a few minutes, contemplating, before he started the engine and drove off. 

  


It still hurt to sit, but it never did to show weakness before Shaw—a name Azazel still wasn’t used to, having first known the vampire as Klaus Schmidt. For now he ignored the occasional shooting pain in the amputated tail and maintained his performance of cool comfort as Emma offered him a glass of vodka. He downed it; the buzz wouldn’t last long in his metabolism, but at least the pain would be dulled a little. 

“Poor thing,” she said, sinking onto the couch beside him, threading her fingers through his hair. He glanced at her with disinterest; in hundreds of years only one woman had ever really caught his eye, and last he heard she was wandering around the south avoiding sunlight. 

“ _Poor thing_?” said Schmidt—Shaw—in a tone that dripped genteel venom. “He has _failed_ us!” 

“By no fault of his own!” Emma pouted. “Be kind, Sebastian. He’s been grievously injured.” Azazel nodded sagely in agreement. Shaw rolled his eyes. 

“We hired you to bring us the girl, Azazel. A simple enough task, had you acted more quickly.” 

“I was taken by surprise,” said Azazel. “I expected her to be alone and unprotected. Instead I found her surrounded by guardians.” Shaw frowned. 

“We knew of the Watcher and the werewolf,” he said. “Do you have new information?” 

“For the price we agreed upon, perhaps.” Azazel smiled, showing all his teeth. Shaw glared. 

“That price was for the _girl_.” 

“I think you may find my intelligence nearly as tantalizing,” Azazel told him. “They have one whose presence I think you may find of particular interest.” Shaw raised his eyebrows. 

“Interest me, then.” 

“The money first,” said Azazel, holding firm. Shaw pulled a billfold from within his velvet suit and tossed it bitterly into Azazel’s lap. He rifled through it to check that the money was all there before he spoke the name and Shaw’s expression turned from disgust to evil, evil delight. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know I said this one would be shorter but apparently that was a lie. I also know we're now at least two major holidays late on this one. Sorry about that. Let's pretend it's still 2014 and I'm not a total failure at keeping up with my fanfic obligations? Maybe?
> 
> But if you're still here hanging on with me, thank you so so so much, and January and February are well in progress (well... I've started them...) and should be up soon.
> 
> Kudos and especially comments are always much appreciated :) thanks for hanging in there and I hope you're enjoying it!


	6. January | Leashed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An accident leads the team to realize there are huge gaps in Logan's memory.

The last full moon was about to rise and Erik was alone on bunker duty tonight, a task he was finding to be a very particular kind of concentrated torture. Hank, conscientious boy that he was, had drug a mattress, pillow, and blanket down the many flights of stairs an hour earlier, then proceeded to take sleeping pills, strip, and curl up under the blanket to let the arrangement become the most human-looking dog bed Erik had ever seen, or at least it would be in about one minute. Hank looked very peaceful on his pillow for the moment; his hypothesis, as he had explained, was that this setup would let him sleep right through the transformation and perhaps even avoid the hangover that usually followed. 

Erik dearly wished Logan would have participated in the experiment as well, and he had made the mistake of suggesting it aloud, committing the further error of using the phrase “domesticated housepet” to describe his idealized version of the werewolf, who was normally rather docile to begin with. Perhaps the bulk of it had been in his tone. Regardless, now Logan’s entire muscular body was tense and he was grumbling under his breath as he shrugged out of his clothes. 

“Oh, do calm down,” said Erik dryly, idling at the gate, one eye on his wristwatch. “It was a _joke_. No need to take it so seriously.” 

“You can take your _seriously_ and shove it up your ass,” Logan grumbled. Erik rolled his eyes. 

“That doesn’t make sense.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“You must admit,” he said, “it’s a funny image, you being led around on a leash. Wearing a collar. A nice red one, perhaps? With an identification tag, so we don’t lose you?” 

“Sicko,” Logan growled, suddenly and inexplicably much more angry than before. “You can take your fuckin’ collars and—aargh!” The scream turned into a canine howl of pain as he fell to the floor, convulsing. Erik watched with a clinical interest as fur, claws and tail sprouted from rapidly-morphing skin. He never ceased to find this transformation fascinating— 

So fascinating, in fact, he realized too late, that he didn’t close the gate before it was complete and the werewolf could charge him, bursting through the fence and bowling him over. It crouched over him and he went as still as he could, not so much as breathing as it sniffed at him. Then it seized his throat with one strangely human paw, 

_motherfucker_ , 

lifted him into the air, and flung him against the wall, 

_Scheiße—Charles—_

and just like that, everything went black. 

  


“Azazel may have gotten in, but only because of his species’ particular demonic powers. The average vampire still won’t be able to breach our defenses,” Charles was explaining as they patrolled the perimeter. “The vast majority of humans would falter, and vampires, especially young ones, are only as cunning as in their previous lives.” 

“Let’s hope you never become one, then,” said Jean. “Or Hank, or Erik.” Charles laughed. 

“Werewolves can’t become vampires,” he said. “Or vice-versa. Their physiognomies are in some ways too different and others too similar, and it’s a good thing too. If they could, I’m reasonably certain the human race as we know it would be extinct.” 

“Oh.” 

“And what, you’re not worried about Logan’s vast intelligence?” Jean shrugged. 

“I worry more about his vast triceps.” 

“Besides,” Charles continued, “as a vampire I, or any of us, might be quite intelligent, but you wouldn’t have to worry _too_ much, at least at first. The recently-turned tend to be very impatient and prone to error.” 

“Dad wasn’t,” said Jean. Charles frowned. 

“We don’t know that,” he said. “How can we know his actions were according to Shaw’s plan? For all we know his error was in kidnapping us so inelegantly, and had he not acted with such foolish haste we would have fallen into his trap and would now be dead.” He paused. “There’s a cheery thought. Anyway, the point is, if anything ever goes so horribly wrong that you find me turned, assuming you aren’t already dead yourself, for the love of God please dust me quickly.” 

“Really?” Jean asked. “I thought the point was going to be that Shaw is both old, so he’s had time to learn patience, and very cunning, so he has a much better shot at getting through the wards than the _average_ vampire.” Charles chuckled. 

“Well, that was my original point, as it happens, but then the lesson meandered a bit.” They walked on through the dimming indigo twilight. The sky was beautifully clear tonight, especially for January. They cleared the edge of the woods, and on the horizon Jean caught sight of the rising moon. Then she frowned. Something was moving in the shadows just past it, creeping up the hill, until it stood silhouetted against the moon. 

The creature raised its head and gave an unearthly howl—a sound Jean knew well by now, a sound no normal wolf would make. 

“What in…” Charles stared at it for a moment. Then he grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the trees. The werewolf’s silhouette turned towards them—Jean swore she could hear it sniffing the air—then it gave another howl, and started to bound toward the edge of the woods. “ _Fuck_ ,” said Charles, and Jean didn’t have time to laugh at how out-of-place the swearword sounded in his accent before he seized her wrist and hissed _run_. 

They tore through the woods faster than Jean had realized she could. She knew heightened speed was a part of the Slayer package—it was the endurance she hadn’t counted on yet. As they reemerged on the other side of the lawn, Charles must have tripped on something, because his legs seemed to come out from under him and he went sprawling. Jean paused, turned back towards him— 

“ _Go!_ ” he shouted, “find Erik, make sure he’s—!” but the werewolf was upon him, and he was cut off by an awful _thud_ and a terrible howl. It didn’t sound like the two previous, though—this sounded almost like… pain? Jean paused, frozen in place. It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but the werewolf looked little and dark, Logan rather than Hank (that was a small, strange relief), and at the moment he seemed to be writhing on the ground about two yards away from where Charles lay. She stepped closer at the same moment the Watcher sat up with a groan. “What the hell…?” 

“It’s like he’s _injured_.” She walked over and offered Charles a hand, which he accepted to pull himself up. 

“Indeed,” he said, regarding the werewolf curiously. The howls had become miserable whimpers, and as they watched the canine muscles began to slide around under the skin. The fur receded some, the snout morphed unpleasantly from wolfish to human, though the worst was the tail, which made an awful cracking sound as it vanished into the spine until the transformation was complete and a shuddering, naked, hollow-eyed Logan lay on the ground at their feet, still illuminated by the light of the full moon. 

  


  


“All right,” said Charles under his breath, fists clenching and unclenching reflexively, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. His efforts not to panic at all had failed so far, so the most he could do to help Jean right now was to not show it. Help Jean. Help Logan. That was the priority. “All right. Um. Jean, why don’t you stay here and watch him? Make sure he doesn’t—no, wait, perhaps that’s not the best of ideas. _You_ go—but no. I ought to check on Hank, and—and Erik—” he gulped. Jean kept glancing nervously at Logan. The werewolf appeared conscious, but glassy-eyed, and Charles imagined he must be freezing. 

“Or,” Jean suggested, “how about I run and get him a blanket before we do all that? Okay? Okay.” Without any more warning she ran off toward the house. Charles sighed, got his bearings, and crouched down near Logan’s massive form. 

“Can you hear me?” he asked warily, and got no response. “You’re going to be fine, all right? We’ll figure out what’s going on.” It might have been a trick of the low light, but for an instant Charles thought he saw Logan nod. “All right.” He stood again, ignoring the slight complaint of numbness in his legs. He would need to rest a while after this exertion, that much was certain, but now was not the time. For now all he could do was stand here and try not to think too much on the fact that Erik had been down there with them tonight. 

Unfortunately, he no longer possessed that kind of mental discipline—these days, trying too hard _not_ to think about something only made him think about it the more. He sighed. 

“Stay here,” he told Logan, he hoped unnecessarily. The werewolf grunted. Probably it would be fine, Charles told himself, and started off back toward the house. 

The stairs were hard and would be harder still on the way back up, but he barely thought of it. The bunker was silent as the grave. Charles shivered. The big blue-tinged wolf that was Hank by day lay curled in a bed beyond the grate. But it wasn’t Hank he was worried about— 

“Oh, god,” said Charles softly. Erik was slumped against the near wall. A wound in his head was still oozing blood, but other than that Charles could see no obvious injuries—no sign of a bite. Carefully, hesitantly, he reached out and tapped his shoulder. Erik sat bolt upright, his eyes flew open, and his hand jolted up to squeeze Charles’ like a vise. For an instant they stared at each other fearfully. Then Erik relaxed, his grip loosening. 

“Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “What happened?” 

“I was hoping you could tell me,” said Charles. “Are you all right?” Erik reached up and prodded gingerly at the back of his head. He winced, and nodded. 

“I think so.” His fingers came back bloody. He rolled his eyes. “I will be.” 

“Are you sure? We should probably—do you need stitches? Oh, lord, look at me—no, it’s dark down here, your pupils would be dilated anyway.” 

“I’m not concussed, Charles,” said Erik evenly. “Today is Wednesday, January seventh, I’m in a very gloomy bunker underneath your house in Westchester, New York, the President of the United States is some Texan idiot, and my family’s been dead for—” 

“All right, fine,” said Charles hastily. “Do you remember anything from before you were knocked out?” Erik frowned. 

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I do. Shit. Charles, where’s Logan?” 

“Um—outside,” said Charles. “What happened?” 

“Has he hurt anyone?” 

“Er… No. He—” 

“Where’s Jean?” 

“Look.” Charles sighed. “Can you walk? If so, you should really come upstairs with me. I know you’re hardly the resident werewolf expert, but since he’s our problem at the moment—” Erik looked at him doubtfully, then past him to the cage, then back again. “Hank will be fine,” Charles assured him. 

“All right.” Erik gripped his hand to stand with a groan, then paused to feel around the wound on the back of his head a bit more. “That should need stitches,” he said resignedly. “Let’s go.” 

“Well—wait—if it needs attention—” 

“I’ll take care of it later,” said Erik dismissively, already starting up the first flight of stairs. “This is more important.” 

“Erik—!” But he had already vanished. Charles sighed and followed him. When he reached the front hall it was to find the big doors still hanging open. Erik stood on the front porch looking out, watching as Logan, leaning heavily on Jean’s shoulder with a blanket wrapped around his waist, limped toward the house. 

“I think he’s all right,” Jean told them once they had made it up the front steps. “I mean, he hasn’t turned back into a wolf, or tried to kill me…” 

“That seems like a very low threshold on which to declare anyone _all right_ ,” said Erik. Such were their lives, Charles considered pointing out, but didn’t. The panic was fading. This was good. 

“What should we do?” Jean asked. 

“I think that’s up to Logan.” Charles stepped toward him. “Would you like to go to bed? Or perhaps you should go back down to the bunker, just in case.” 

“The bunker would be the more rational move, I think,” said Erik. “He may still prove dangerous.” Logan looked back and forth between them with hooded, still-glassy eyes. Charles wondered if he was still in pain. 

“Go fuck yourselves,” Logan muttered, and, once he stood upright on his own with some evident effort, made his way past them and up the stairs. 

“Okay then,” said Jean, who still stood on the porch looking nervous. “Um. What do we do now?” 

“You should go to bed too,” Charles told her. “I think patrolling has caused quite enough excitement for one night.” 

“Thanks,” she said, looking relieved, “good night,” and bounded up the stairs. Charles cast one look over the peaceful grounds before he shut the door and started toward the stairs himself. 

“You were worried.” 

“What?” Charles glanced back. 

“You were worried,” Erik said again. His tone was oddly flat—observational, nothing more. 

“Well, of course I was worried,” said Charles. “What the hell _happened,_ Erik? How did he get out?” 

“I—we had a bit of a disagreement.” 

“A _bit_?” Charles stared at him. Erik said nothing. Charles shook his head, exasperated. “Worried. _Worried._ Christ, Erik, you might have been dead, or—or turned.” 

“Well, I wasn’t.” 

“But you could have been. And do you really not know who the President of the United States is beyond _some Texan idiot_?” Erik shrugged. 

“I don’t pay that much attention.” 

“But you pay _taxes_ ,” said Charles incredulously as he started up the stairs. “Don’t you? Erik?” He looked around. Erik had vanished. Charles sighed. “Perhaps _I_ need to pay more attention.” 

  


Hank woke to find the bunker empty and silent, though the lights were on; Logan had already gone, it seemed, and Erik with him. 

“How late did I sleep?” he asked no one in particular, and so was surprised when a voice from the end of his bed responded. 

“You didn’t. It’s quarter to eight.” Jean shifted over into his line of sight. “Good morning.” 

“Where’s Logan? And Erik?” 

“Upstairs,” she said. “Something… weird… happened last night. Charles and I will tell you about it, but we should probably avoid Logan today.” 

“Um—okay.” 

“You should get dressed so we can go upstairs. Charles is making breakfast and I’m afraid he’s going to burn something.” 

“All right,” said Hank. “Can you hand me my clothes?” 

“Sure.” She dumped them all into his lap. 

“And avert your eyes?” 

“Oh, whatever.” Jean rolled her eyes and turned away. Hank still got dressed under the covers, just in case. 

Well before they reached the top of the stairs his lingering canine senses detected that something was, indeed, burning, and then the sound of Charles cursing repeatedly and possibly kicking something. He had felt all right until then, but suddenly Hank felt a headache blossoming near the nape of his neck. _Great._ The cursing, at least, stopped as they walked into the kitchen to find Charles glaring at a pan on the stove as it smoked rather alarmingly. Then he looked up at them and said, most forlornly, 

“All I wanted was to make pancakes.” 

“It’s okay,” said Hank, as Jean fought hard not to laugh for a respectable ten seconds before she surrendered. “We can make do with toast. And coffee. Lots of coffee.” 

Once they were seated around the kitchen table eating breakfast Hank asked after Logan again. 

“Jean said something weird happened?” 

“Indeed,” said Charles around a mouthful of toast. He swallowed and added, “he broke out of the bunker shortly after turning—I have yet to find out precisely what happened, but from Erik’s behavior I suspect he may be to some degree at fault—and made it out onto the grounds, where Jean and I nearly managed to outrun him before he—er—caught up to me and lunged. But as he tried to attack, he seemed to be thrown back as if by some unseen force.” 

“Are you sure it wasn’t some kind of magical defense?” Hank asked. “I know you have some innate magical ability, Charles, we’ve seen it—perhaps your subconscious—” 

“No,” said Charles, “I couldn’t possibly do anything of the kind. You see, after he was prevented from attacking me, at first he seemed to be in a great deal of pain—and then he transformed back into a human.” Hank’s jaw dropped involuntarily. He shut it again. 

“Under the light of the full moon?” Charles nodded, his face grave. 

“Indeed.” 

“That… that makes no sense,” said Hank, mind reeling for theories. Something—anything—aspirin, probably, would help— 

“Because Logan’s always _such_ an open book,” said Jean. She had a point. 

“Well, we’re going to try to make sense of it,” said Charles. “Perhaps you can help us?” 

“How?” 

“Well, I’m not certain I want Erik in the room when I’m talking to Logan, but your presence might be helpful.” 

“I thought Jean said we weren’t going to bother Logan today?” said Hank. 

“Oh, dear. No.” Charles shook his head. “No, I think we must. The sooner we can figure out what’s wrong, the sooner we can help him.” 

“Then let’s go,” said Erik. They all jumped. He had appeared seemingly out of nowhere to slouch in the doorway. Charles looked up at him warily. 

“All—all right,” he said. “Would you like any breakfast?” 

“I’ll take some coffee.” Charles started to get up, but Erik held out a hand—“no, I’ll get it. You just—you three go on. I’ll be up in just a moment.” 

“…Right,” said Charles, and looked back at Jean and Hank, who glanced at each other in confusion. “Shall we?” 

  


“Before you ask,” said Logan when he opened his bedroom door, “no, I don’t know what the hell happened.” 

“Well.” Charles frowned. Jean glanced at Hank, who looked vaguely ill. “That certainly creates more issues than it resolves.” 

“Well, sorry, Chuck, but—” Logan started to say, but Charles pushed past him and into the room. He plopped down on the bed. 

“But what?” he asked. 

“I’m not really in the mood,” Logan deadpanned. Weirdly, Charles went bright red at that. 

“I—all—I just want to ask you some questions, Logan,” he said, “don’t get ahead of yourself.” Logan rolled his eyes. Hank snorted. 

“What?” Jean whispered, confused. Hank looked down at her oddly. 

“Come on,” he said, “you’re sixteen.” 

“Almost seventeen,” Jean corrected. Hank raised his eyebrows, and suddenly she felt defensive. “So?” 

“So nothing. Never mind,” he said hastily as Erik heaved a great sigh of frustration and shoved them both into the room to shut the door behind them. Charles glanced up. 

“Not you,” he said over their heads. “You’ve done quite enough.” 

“What?” said Erik quietly. 

“I’m sorry, Erik, but I can’t imagine your presence will help,” Charles told him. 

“Nah, it’s fine,” said Logan gruffly before Erik could respond. “He can be here. Whatever. Just get on with it.” 

“All right,” said Charles, though he looked unconvinced. “Logan, I know this may be difficult, but I need you to tell me, from your perspective, exactly what happened last night.” 

“Well.” Logan sighed. “I was more or less fine leading up to moonrise, but then that bastard pissed me off, so I transformed angry.” 

“Do you think that has anything to do with—” 

“No,” said Logan hastily, and Hank nodded agreement. “No, that’s just what made me be the stereotype.” 

“Beg pardon?” said Charles. 

“How much do you know about werewolves, Prof?” Logan asked, eyes narrowing. Charles rolled his eyes. 

“Embarrassingly little for living with two of them, I’ll admit, and _please_ don’t call me that—” 

“Well, the mental, um—” he waved a hand in the air as if searching for the words to explain. 

“The psychological state of the human at the metamorphic climax defines the behavior of the wolf,” Hank recited. 

“Thanks, Mr. Science,” said Logan. “Yeah, what he said. How you feel during the transformation, that feeling pretty much becomes the wolf. Most werewolves can’t manage the anxiety they get about the full moon, so they become bloodthirsty beasts—his words, once—” he pointed a thumb at Hank—“but I’ve always been able to before. As long as I’m not _provoked_ ,” he added, shooting a dark glare at Erik in the corner. Erik rolled his eyes. 

“Always?” Charles prodded. Logan shrugged. 

“As long as I can remember.” 

“Surely there was some point in your time as a werewolf when you didn’t have such a fine degree of control,” Charles pointed out. “Has anything like what happened last night happened in that time?” 

“I don’t know,” said Logan after a moment’s pause. “I don’t know. I did… I did have a little trouble with my temper when I was younger. PTSD. But then there was a pack that helped me deal with it, taught me the mental thing. Then I went to Tibet and studied their techniques, but that didn’t do as much.” 

“Post-traumatic stress disorder?” Charles’ voice was much softer all of a sudden. “If you don’t mind my asking, what was your…?” 

“My trauma?” Logan rolled his eyes. “What the fuck do you _think_?” 

“Oh. Of course.” Charles nodded quickly. “And what pack was it that helped you? That is, where were they located, and who—?” 

“In Tibet, I told you. Bayarmaa, Osbourne, Yukio—” 

“No,” Charles interrupted, “the one before that.” 

“I don’t—” Logan frowned, and his brow furrowed in obvious concentration. Then he looked up at Charles, his face suddenly haunted. “I don’t remember.” Jean glanced at Hank. He shrugged. She looked at Erik, whose face remained as unreadable as ever. His eyes were on Charles. 

“Well, how long ago was it?” Charles looked a little rattled, but seemed to take it in stride. 

“I don’t—I don’t remember that either,” said Logan. “It must have been at least three years, I think.” 

“Why?” Charles asked. Logan closed his eyes. 

“Because,” he said. “Now I’m thinking about it, I can’t seem to remember much of anything before that.” 

“Well.” Charles sighed. “If you like, there are some things I can do to try and retrieve those memories. Using magic.” Logan looked conflicted. “I would advise it,” Charles nudged. “The more you know, the better-equipped we’ll be to figure out what’s going on.” Slowly, the big werewolf nodded. 

  


“Are you sure you’re all right to do this?” Erik asked, keeping his voice an undertone he hoped would slip past even werewolf hearing. Charles looked up at him quizzically, blue eyes narrowed. 

“Why shouldn’t I be?” 

“It might not be safe,” said Erik. “He’s unstable. We have no way of knowing what could—” 

“Oh, I’ll be fine.” Charles waved it aside. “I have a Slayer standing by.” He shook his head. “ _Now_ who’s worried?” 

“I could—” 

“You’ll do nothing,” Charles said over him. “You’ve—” 

“Done quite enough, yes,” Erik finished irritably. “Fine. Forget I said anything.” Charles sighed long-sufferingly; Erik wasn’t sure if what washed over him then was a wave of guilt or just anger. Either way, he stepped back to skulk in his corner again. God knew he was unwanted anywhere else in the room. 

Hank had run to get candles, which now glowed with blue flame in a circle around where Charles and Logan sat on the floor. As Erik watched, Charles scooted closer so as to press his fingers to Logan’s temples and close his eyes, concentrating. 

“What do you see?” he could hear him murmur. 

“You can see it too,” said Logan irritably, “you tell me.” 

“Calm your mind,” Charles told him firmly. “I want you to tell me what _you_ see, because chances are you’ll understand it more clearly than I can. Now. Logan, what do you see?” The werewolf sighed. 

“I see a lake,” he said, voice low and unusually calm. “It’s frozen. It’s winter. There’s snow on the ground.” 

“Where are you?” 

“I’m not sure.” Logan turned his head one way and the other, eyes still closed, face still peaceful. “It’s hard to tell when everything’s covered up. There are trees, and a street. There’s a manhole in the center of the street. No snow on that.” Then he started. “Cleveland.” 

  


Cleveland. That’s right. He’s beginning to remember now. It’s like something out of a dream, always floating on the edge of his mind, never quite tangible enough to hold onto. The snow isn’t thick—only a couple inches—but it’s still cold underfoot. He’s barefoot. Why is he barefoot? 

His body is covered in scars that have since faded, and the manhole cover has no snow. There’s a handle. When he bends over and pulls, it lifts up with hardly any effort. Down below is a tunnel. He walks along it, and the grate is cold too, though not as cold as the snow. There are metal grates on the walls and as the floor. The sewer runs underfoot, about a meter down. A meter? The metric system. Whatever. 

There’s a big round door at the end of the tunnel. Letters on it. The Initiative, Project 601. That opens too, or maybe he floats through it. Inside is a big white room, so white it’s blinding, lined with cages surrounding metal tables, the light is disorienting, there are tables—tables—that’s a scalpel—at the center is a big glass tank, tall, a cylinder with tubes sticking out, and something is suspended in the cloudy liquid it contains, and the tubes are running something silver right into the body. Flashes. Light. It’s blinding. The light is blinding. The antiseptic smell is strong, too strong, and it’s not just the wolf senses, it’s overdone to mask something. 

A cage shakes and growls. He turns. The cage—what’s in it—it lunges at him. He’s in the cylinder. He’s on a table. He’s lying pinned under the creature, and there’s a needle stuck in his arm. A million needles. Tubes. Eyes, human eyes in the creature. Creatures. Human eyes beyond it. Cold, icy blue. A name. What was the name? Silver needles. Sedated and pinned and the needles, they’re agony. Tubes. The _name._ The creature pinning him with its paws on his neck. Paws. Tubes. Stryker. 

_Stryker_. 

Claws, sprouting from fingerlike paws, and it’s covered in fur—the fur is all over him—he’s covered in fur— 

Someone screams and he’s awake and he’s a wolf and that small human thing looks tasty but something bigger and hard and furious has leapt between them that’s not 

  


“Well then,” said Charles, regarding Logan, human again but still shaking where Erik and Hank had managed to heft him onto his bed, for a moment longer before he turned back to the rest of the room. “Thoughts?” 

“He could be chipped,” said Hank at the same moment Erik said, “The Initiative has been known to use chips—” they stopped and looked at each other in surprise. 

“What?” said Charles. 

“Well—” Hank glanced at Erik, who gestured for him to continue. “I—okay. Um, the Initiative. Erik’s right, they have been known to use microchips for, for behavior modification. A couple of years ago in Sunnydale they put one in William the Bloody, effectively, er, neutering…” He trailed off, clearly regretting his choice of language. Logan sat up, giving a low, menacing growl. Jean giggled nervously. “So,” Hank finished with substantially less confidence, “um, since you say he’s definitely been through the Initiative, that would top my list. Of potential explanations. Anyway.” 

“How do the chips work?” Charles asked. Hank perked up a bit. 

“They’re implanted within the brain to mess up its chemistry,” he explained. “I don’t know how, exactly, but they’re designed to detect violent intent toward humans and on detection trigger a pain reaction.” 

“How Pavlovian,” said Erik. Hank nodded. 

“Yes, indeed. As to the science behind it, again, I’m not sure how they work, but I would theorize that the chip detects adrenocortical activity and increases in noroepinephrine, along with neurotransmitter signals that—” 

“Right. Perhaps you should do some research on your own, if you’re so interested,” Charles said quickly, cutting him off. Hank nodded sheepishly. 

“Yes, all right. Sorry.” 

“Oh, no need to apologize! I appreciate your enthusiasm.” He gave Hank an encouraging smile. “But I don’t think a chip is the answer, based on what you’ve just said.” 

“Why not?” Jean asked. “It sounds about right.” 

“Perhaps,” said Charles, “but from Hank’s description it sounds like a chip would hamper _any_ violent impulse Logan has, regardless of what form he takes. And we’ve all seen him do some rather violent things while human, without any sign of such a reaction. As a werewolf, on the other hand, he’s always been very even-tempered.” 

“Docile, even,” said Erik. Logan growled again and moved as if to lunge at him, but Charles set a hand firmly on his shoulder and beat him to it. 

“You’re not helping, Erik,” he snapped. Erik stared at him a moment, wide-eyed. Then, to Charles’ surprise, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. 

  


“Look,” said Hank, “if you want the experiments to be done for the day, I totally understand. I don’t have to run any tests you don’t want me to.” 

“It’s fine, kid,” said Logan gruffly. “You’re not—them. Do whatever you need to.” 

“Oh good. Because I really do want to run these tests.” Hank grinned to himself. Logan sat before him on a counter in the lab, a lab he hadn’t known about before, on the second floor near the library. Now he knew it was here, clean and shiny and fully equipped, Hank could think of a thousand uses for it. For starters, “I need to draw some blood,” he told Logan. “Will that be all right?” 

“Sure.” Still, the big werewolf eyed the syringe nervously. “Sure. Fine. Just get it over with, okay?” Hank did, in and out as quickly as he could. Logan hissed and rubbed at the spot when the needle was gone, glaring into space at nothing in particular. 

“I’d make a vampire joke,” said Hank, “but I’m not sure now’s the time. Or the place.” Logan snorted. 

“No kidding.” He eyed the syringe, now full of dark red liquid, a little suspiciously nonetheless. 

“What do you need the blood for?” Jean asked curiously, swinging her legs against the cabinet where she was perched. 

“From what he and Charles were saying, it sounded like whatever they did to him in the Initiative involved needles and possibly IVs,” Hank explained. “I figure an analysis of his blood might give me a hint as to what that whatever was.” 

“What do you think they were _trying_ to do?” Jean continued. 

“That’s a philosophical question.” Hank poked her knee and she kicked at him. “Science won’t tell me _that_.” 

“A cure,” said Logan suddenly. 

“What?” Hank turned toward him even more suddenly. 

“That’s what he wanted,” Logan elaborated. “A cure.” 

“For lycanthropy?” 

“For everything, I think.” Logan shrugged. “For—for magic. I think. I don’t know. I don’t remember.” He looked away. “Is the blood all you actually needed _me_ for?” 

“Well, it couldn’t hurt to keep you under observation,” said Hank. 

“I’d rather be under my covers,” Logan told them. “Asleep.” 

“Or that.” Hank shrugged. “Go on. I’ve got what I need.” 

“Thanks.” Logan stood up from the counter gingerly, frighteningly so, and made his way out of the room. 

“A cure,” Hank muttered, fumbling with test tubes. “A cure." 

“What do you suppose could cure lycanthropy?” Jean asked curiously. “No one's ever found anything, have they?” 

“No,” said Hank. “No, indeed.” 

“I mean, there are things that can combat it,” she continued. “Silver bullets, right?” 

“Yeah. Among other things.” He considered for a moment. “Actually, it might be good to have some silver here. For reference. I'd like to see how it interacts with the blood, with the DNA—yes, that should be just fascinating.” 

“To you, maybe.” Jean didn't move. Hank looked at her. “What?” 

“Could you run and get it?” he asked. “Please. I don't want to touch it without gloves, anyway.” 

“Well, do you know where I can find some?” 

“There's a silver dagger in my desk drawer,” Hank told her. Jean frowned. 

“Why?" she asked. "Should I be worried?” 

“No, no. It's a—a souvenir, of sorts. I'm not—it's not for use on _me_ ,” Hank explained. The Slayer didn't look entirely reassured, but she still went without further question or protest. A few moments later she returned, carrying the dagger. Hank pulled on gloves, though it still stung a little even through the latex, and shaved off just a bit of the blade. 

"Whoa," said Jean. "How'd you do that? It's metal." 

“Pure silver is very soft,” said Hank. “Thanks for bringing it. Now could you please get it away from me?” 

“How does it work, the silver thing?” Jean fumbled with the sheath, sliding into her boot before she put away the dagger. “Is it like an allergy? Does it make you sneeze?” 

“Or break out in hives. I'm not sure, actually.” Hank tipped the silver shavings into a test tube, and breathed a low sigh of relief. “That's part of why I'm testing it. That, and if there is a cure—well, perhaps silver is a part of it.” 

“Or garlic!" Jean suggested. "You could try garlic.” 

“That's vampires,” Hank corrected. “And it’s not a real thing to begin with. Come on. You've forgotten the stuff in the book _already_?” 

“You had," she retorted, and he really had no argument for that. "Hey, if you're looking for a cure, what's the point of analyzing his blood?” 

“The Initiative experimented on him in search of one,” said Hank. “You were just standing there when we went over all that, right? I didn't imagine that?” 

“Shut up. Clearly they didn’t _actually_ find one,” Jean pointed out. “I mean, Logan’s still a werewolf. He still transforms every full moon. So it’s not like whatever the experiment was, was successful.” 

“Perhaps not,” said Hank. “But maybe if I can replicate it, I can…” 

“Can what?” said Jean, frowning. 

“Figure out where they went wrong.” He shrugged. “Fix it. I don’t know. I mean—” 

“But you don’t _need_ a cure. You’re completely under control, right?” 

“Yeah,” Hank muttered. “So was Logan.” 

  


It took a moment between when Charles knocked and Erik opened his door, and the moment seemed to stretch out much longer than it was. 

“What?” Erik said flatly. 

“I just wanted to say that I’m terribly sorry,” Charles told him, stepping inside. “I fear I may not have been fair to you.” Erik opened his mouth as if to retort, but shut it again before anything came out. “I didn’t mean to—it’s just a lot to deal with, you must realize,” Charles continued, knowing he was babbling but apparently unable to stop. “Whatever happened, I—I know I can’t know, as I wasn’t there, and I don’t—have enough power anymore—I mean, I don’t think I fully understand either side of the story, and obviously I’m aware you and Logan have never been on the best of terms to begin with, which I also don’t understand—not that anyone is on the best of terms with Logan, honestly, so perhaps, actually, I do—” there, he managed to shut up. Erik stood inches away from him, looking down at him with an expression Charles might have pegged as conflicted if the man wasn’t always so unreadable. Again, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but again it seemed that he changed his mind at the last second to keep to himself whatever it was he would have said. 

“I need to take a trip,” he said instead. Charles frowned. 

“Where?” 

“Not sure yet.” 

“Well—why? Do you have an idea on what’s going on with Logan?” 

“Perhaps.” Erik shrugged. 

“Well, I suppose if you have a lead, you should follow it,” said Charles, but mostly he just felt very confused. Erik nodded shortly, sharply. 

“May I take the car?” he asked, tone oddly distant. 

“Oh. Of course. Not as if anyone here will use it.” Charles tried to smile. Erik made no response except to mutter, 

“Thanks,” and stalk away. 

“Of course,” Charles repeated lamely and sank down onto the foot of Erik’s bed, staring into space, more confused than ever. 

  


“Hey.” Jean knocked on the doorframe as she peered into Logan’s room. “Oh,” she added in a whisper, “you’re sleeping. Never mind.” She started to leave, but— 

“Huh?” He rolled over, blinking blearily up at her. “What do you want?” 

“Just checking on you. I can leave.” 

“No, don’t.” Logan sat up. “Anyone checked on _you_?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You doin’ all right?” 

“Of course.” Jean stepped into the room, curious. “Shouldn’t I be?” 

“I dunno,” said Logan. “Just, you don’t seem scared, and I’d think you would be. You _should_ be.” 

“Why?” 

“You were the one I—you know. Went after.” He looked down. “You and Charles. And you ran.” 

“First of all,” said Jean, “running was his idea.” She peered at Logan to see his reaction, and was gratified to find a slight smile. 

“Fuckin’ pansy Brits,” he muttered. Jean grinned. 

“Also, we weren’t exactly prepared to be chased down by a lunatic wolf. Now I’ll know to _always_ be prepared.” 

“World’s strangest girl scout.” 

“World’s most badass,” she corrected. “And as long as I’m prepared, well—I can take you.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Logan darkly. “When the wolf’s mad—” 

“It’s irrational.” Jean shrugged. “And untrained. I’m not. So there. Plus,” she added, “the wolf has weaknesses that I don’t.” She reached down and pulled the silver knife from its sheath in her boot. When she held it up Logan shrank away, it seemed instinctively. “Superman, meet kryptonite.” She resheathed it, and Logan relaxed. 

“Oh, please,” he said. “’f I was a superhero, I’d kick way more ass than fuckin’ goody-goody farm boy _Superman._ ” 

“Sure. Seems like maybe you’re feeling better.” Jean smiled. “Just remember, human or wolf, I can still kick yours.” 

“Hey,” said Logan, “who said anything about _human_? I’ve got at least six inches and a solid hundred pounds of muscle on you.” 

“I’m stronger than I look, remember? And faster. Like, _really_ fast.” 

“I have superhuman senses.” 

“I have superhuman _everything_.” Jean paused. “Guess someday we’ll have to find out.” 

“Sure, kid,” Logan chuckled. She left him sitting there, smiling and shaking his head. 

  


This, Erik knew as soon as he pulled out of the driveway, gates swinging shut behind him, would be far too long a distance just to drive. Rather than turn as he might have, then, he turned towards the route that would take him to the airport. A train would have been easier to navigate, probably, especially with the maddening new ground security in airports he had only ever heard about in passing, but trains were definitely out. Had been since… Well, for a long time. 

Good he’d had some recent experience driving in the city; it was never a pleasant experience. Still he made it to La Guardia, where every official he passed looked at him with some suspicion. Though the days when he might well have posed a real threat to them were long over, Erik supposed he would appear somewhat out-of-place to those who were trained to spot such things; he had the resources to buy a last-minute first class ticket to the opposite corner of the country, but he traveled alone and without so much as a briefcase in the way of luggage. Lucky him being a good-looking white man; he could act out the unassuming confidence that came with privileged mediocrity as best he knew how, and with that he easily passed. 

The flight lifted off the ground and Erik’s stomach turned unpleasantly. He had never been comfortable flying, at least not alone; something about the circumstances in which he had lived once, he imagined. With nothing else to distract him—suddenly he regretted his lack of a carry-on: with one he might have brought a book, had he thought this through more carefully—he turned his thoughts to the destination. The people who said it was about the journey were dead wrong. 

Southern California had been home to an Initiative once, probably the only one that remained at all documented. Perhaps Erik ought to look into it while he was there. But Sunnydale was gone, after all; and for all he had let Charles believe it (it was easiest), a lead on the Initiative wasn’t really why he was going. 

  


“Found anything yet?” came a low voice from the doorway behind Hank. He jumped, nearly giving himself a black eye on the microscope. 

“Not yet.” 

“No magic serum in my blood that keeps me from harming people?” said Logan, drawing nearer. “No silver bullet embedded in my spine? No genetic mumbo-jumbo?” 

“Yes, it’s the _genetics_ that would be the mumbo-jumbo,” Hank muttered, “and not the ‘magic serum’, as you say.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“No,” said Hank, setting aside the microscope and replacing his glasses on his nose. “No, there’s nothing wrong with your genetics, not that I can find. Aside from the abnormalities that come with the bite, naturally. Although I suppose—oh, of course! I should check that—I suppose it is possible that some Initiative scientist cracked the lycanthropic epigenome and figured out where to methylate—I mean, er, tag it, in plain English.” 

“Yeah, ’cause plain English does so much good by the time you get to that part of the sentence,” said Logan dryly. 

“Unfortunately,” Hank continued, ignoring him, “I don’t have the right tools here to examine the DNA that closely, let alone try to replicate the process—” 

“The fuck d’you want to do that for?” said Logan, conversational around the profanity. 

“What?” 

“Replicate the process. From what I was starting to remember back there, it was horrible.” 

“But perhaps it could help,” said Hank, mind still mostly on the sample under his fingers. Then Logan seized his shoulders and spun him around to look him in the eye, dead serious. 

“You don’t need a cure,” he said flatly. “There is nothing wrong with you. Well, there might be, but if there is it’s not what you are.” Hank shrugged out of his hold. 

“Right,” he said. “Funny _you_ should say that. I feel like today has really proved just the opposite.” 

“My problems have nothing to do with being a werewolf,” said Logan. “I thought Chuck’s magic thingy pretty much established that.” 

“If this man Stryker was looking for a cure himself when he did whatever he did to you,” Hank shot back, “doesn’t that mean your problems, in fact, have _everything_ to do with being a werewolf?” Logan was silent. “Right.” He jerked out of the bigger werewolf’s hold and returned to the microscope, carefully setting the current sample’s slide over the light. Something strange immediately caught his eye. “Huh.” 

“What is it?” Logan was immediately back at attention, peering curiously at the slide from around the microscope. 

“Something in here looks almost—metallic,” said Hank, drawing back to look at him. “A silver bullet in your spine… That might not be so far off, from what I’m seeing.” 

“Okay,” said Logan, suddenly looking very nervous. “So?” 

“Whatever it is would show up in an x-ray,” Hank suggested. “If we can wrangle it.” 

“I bet you can,” said Logan. “If anyone’ll have an x-ray machine somewhere in his house, it’ll be Professor X, right?” Hank couldn’t help smirking. 

“Just don’t call him that when we ask,” he said, “and I’m sure he’ll be willing to help.” 

  


“Relax,” Charles told him. Logan grumbled under his breath, but complied where he lay on the table beneath the big scanner. “All right.” Charles looked up at Hank. “Go ahead.” He pressed a button and the machine whirred into motion. Logan lay very still as the light traveled over him. It finished with a click and a beep. They waited. Then, 

“Holy _shit!_ ” Hank exclaimed. 

“What is it?” Charles dashed around the table to stand at his shoulder. Logan sat up. 

“What?” 

“My god,” said Charles. 

“ _What_?” He stood shakily. They turned to face him with looks of shock so identical that Logan probably would have pissed himself laughing in any other situation. But in this one, he was mostly—not scared, never scared, but definitely… concerned. 

“Um—your skeleton,” Hank managed. “It’s like it’s—it’s covered in metal.” 

“Silver, I would guess,” Charles put in. “That… that would explain it, I suppose. How you can transform at all under such conditions is beyond me, but somehow…” 

“It is silver,” said Logan suddenly, because suddenly he remembered. It was a flash so violent it knocked him back onto the table, convulsing just as he had as the tubes pumped unimaginably hot molten metal into his body, the coolant doing very, very little to help—and that was before he was even bitten. When he opened his eyes—or closed them—he could see the man Stryker called Creed smiling at him with a fanged mouth from the other side of the glass. 

“Hold him!” Hank was yelling. “If I can get imaging of the transformation, it’ll be—” then English ceased to make sense, except for a very loud presence in his head, like Charles but far older and more powerful, ordering him to _calm his mind_ … 

  


“Did you get any more memories?” Hank asked quietly as he offered Charles a hand. Evidently he assumed the collapse was due to some kind of telepathic overload, and not… well. Good. Charles batted the hand away and nodded. 

“Indeed,” he said, “I managed to find quite a lot.” 

“Does it make sense?” 

“Not to me, but I imagine once he’s sorted through it Logan can explain everything,” said Charles. “It’s all unlocked now. He’ll have adjust to that.” He glanced up at the dark-furred wolf who lay tranquilized on the x-ray table. It was coming back now; with a hard push of his arms he managed to stand, and stumbled only a little. Hank steadied him. 

“Are you all right?” 

“Quite.” Charles smiled wanly. “Can you carry him to his bed? I expect he’ll wake up human again.” 

“I’ll make it.” Hank nodded. “If not, I’ll enlist Jean. Together I’m sure we can manage it.” 

“Good.” Charles regarded the wolf for a moment. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone for a while, so I’ll just be going.” 

“Of course.” He left Hank standing before the readout, cycling through the x-rays of the transformation, murmuring wonderingly to himself. Charles had to smile. It was refreshing to see Hank so excited about something—and when that something was science, was supernatural _biology._ He had never been so strongly reminded of himself, in a time when he was younger, happier. 

That brief good mood darkened as he made his way through the house. In truth he wasn’t certain how much of the great rise in those memories was from watching Hank, and how much was… different. For all he had managed to unlock Logan’s memories of the werewolf’s own hidden past, there were still doors and pathways in his tangled mind that Charles found himself unable to navigate. Behind them, he could tell—it was like it emanated specifically towards him, was drawn to him like a magnet to its mate—something else was hidden, something that had nothing to do with the Initiative, these Stryker and Creed characters, or even Logan himself at all. Rather, though he couldn’t tell specifically _what_ , it was quite obvious from the shape of it that the memory was something about… Charles. 

It was a memory, or… more a bit of knowledge, repressed in a way that outwardly resembled the memories of the Initiative, but the reasons were different. This seemed repressed deliberately, in a way Charles recognized from somewhere deep in the past, back when he used to deal with this kind of thing regularly. Necessarily; she had become quite good at it during their childhood. This was no mere memory, but a secret, and no matter how he tried now to reach it, that secret remained just out of his grasp. It was well-hidden; he had to wonder if Logan had some kind of particular training, that he could keep one so well. 

Whatever it was, it was more recent than the Initiative. The mental barriers there had been obviously artificial, implanted by someone else to serve his own purpose, while these were carefully and organically constructed. There was a bitter twinge to them when Charles prodded enough, a sense of strong dislike and resentment. A secret Logan didn’t want to keep, but for some reason was willing to anyway? That only served to intrigue him more. When the wards were so well-designed it only begged the question the more of who had trained him to build them, and why, and _damn_ it, what was the secret that it had to be so closely kept? Perhaps he could— 

No. The doors remained firmly shut. Whatever the secret was, Charles could not reach it. All this was most unsettling, and now, of course, when he tried to just put it aside, he couldn’t. Once more he lacked the discipline. And of course, then he had to wonder, if he still had the discipline, the mental agility, if he would have been able to break through… 

Sometimes he did miss it. Sometimes. 

Charles’ head was beginning to ache, and evidently he wasn’t paying much attention to where he was going. Without meaning to he found himself walking down the hall in the far wing toward Erik’s room, before he remembered there was no point; Erik wasn’t here. The rush of disappointment at the realization surprised him, if he was honest. He would have _liked_ to talk to Erik about all he had discovered, to ask what he thought. If nothing else, perhaps Erik could tell him he wasn’t crazy. Probably his response would be noncommittal and inexplicably cryptic, but in a way that would have been… comforting. Which made no sense whatsoever, but there you were. 

He had given no indication of when he would be back. Charles stopped outside the door for a moment before he turned around and walked away again. When Erik did get back, he would talk to him, at least he hoped. Perhaps he would have to apologize again. He would; of course he would. And then he would talk to him. Because really, who else was there to talk to about anything? 

Charles set aside the inconvenient fact that there were three other people he could talk to, and didn’t dwell too long on the truth of the matter: that Erik was the only one he _wanted_ to tell. 

  


They remained in the shadow as Erik approached them, the long shadow of the high-rise silhouetted against the Pacific sunset. He had hoped to avoid a mutual sighting, but then Shaw’s eyes caught his. He smiled. Erik’s heart leapt into his throat. 

“Aha!” Shaw’s delight was always the most horrifying thing about him. They drew nearer along the sidewalk and he couldn’t seem to stop walking even as his traitorous feet led him towards them. Emma was still and silent and eerie on Shaw’s arm. They were perfectly in contrast as ever, black suit and white dress, like a twisted cake topper for a wedding straight out of a horror movie. They were face to face now, a spare meter apart. “If it isn’t… Erik Lehnsherr, isn’t it?” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am,” Erik managed to reply. 

“Oh, I know,” said Shaw. “And don’t pretend you can forget we’re still here. In the world.” 

“Oh, I don’t,” Erik echoed. Shaw leaned closer, the picture of cordiality. 

“You know it’s only a matter of time before we reach the Slayer, Lehnsherr,” he said in an undertone. “I know you’re intimately familiar with the process.” Erik swallowed hard. It did little to return him to normal. 

“It won’t happen this time,” he said. Shaw laughed. 

“Of course. You can continue to think that, if it makes you feel any better. Continue to espouse it, even, to those companions of yours. The girl especially. A false sense of security will only make my work the easier.” He looked around. “But tell me, Lehnsherr, what brings you to Los Angeles? Rather a long distance from the people you’re supposed to be, ah, protecting.” 

“I seek counsel,” said Erik shortly. 

“Of course!” The picture of high society manners, the elderly vampire inclined his head. “Our errands are the same, then. In fact, we’ve just been up to see our lawyer. Perhaps you know him?” He gestured up at the building that sheltered them, hand tracing an elegant line up to the stately façade of Wolfram  & Hart. Erik’s blood ran colder than it already was. “Business counsel, you see,” Shaw continued. “I can only assume your problem is of a more personal nature?” 

“You might assume that.” Erik said nothing more, only stood rooted to the spot as Shaw drew out his pocketwatch and examined it. That goddamned pocketwatch. Not for the first time, Erik was seized by the urge to smash it. 

“Well,” said Shaw, “we really must be going. Our hour draws nigh, and all that.” He nodded toward the west and the fiery glow of the horizon. “So nice to run into you, Mr. Lehnsherr. I expect our paths shall cross again soon.” 

“I can think of a different cross I’d like you to run into,” Erik muttered. Shaw laughed. 

“Always so clever,” he said. “I look forward to being blessed with your wit again sometime.” 

“Perhaps making enough of a blessing of it can turn wit into holy water,” Erik replied. 

“Delightful as ever, Mr. Lehnsherr,” said Emma firmly before Shaw could retort again. “We _will_ be seeing you, little one.” She touched his forearm lightly as they went, sending a shudder through him that he couldn’t quite suppress. He always wondered why they didn’t just destroy him on sight, at least until he met them again and remembered to just what degree they preferred to take the mind games. 

He looked at the doors. Wolfram  & Hart. A part of him wanted to storm in and demand to know why on earth they would take on the Hellfire Club as clients, but a larger part, one that won out, told him to simply turn and walk away. He could find shelter for the night; once rested, and right now he thought he needed sleep more than he had in years, he could figure out what he was going to do next. 

God, what on earth _could_ he do? 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter down. I'm so ashamed of how much the posting rate has slowed on these... my goal was once a month, but lately it's more like once every two months. I can only hope people are still paying attention!
> 
> This is chapter (episode) 6 of a projected 12 in this story, so with this one marking the halfway point we're more or less heading into the homestretch. Of course there's still tension to build, plotlines to develop, and (obviously, with the way this chapter went) some big secrets to reveal, but from a writing perspective it feels to me like it's all downhill from here.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are precious gifts and I appreciate each and every one.


	7. February | Unleashed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the next full moon approaches, Hank continues to seek a cure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may kind of give away a plot point, but I know I personally really hate anything involving needles, including reading about them, so: warning for hypodermic needle use.

  


The full moon was approaching and Jean was beginning to think Hank meant to lock himself in the lab for it instead of the bunker. At first she hadn’t taken this very seriously, and Charles had actually encouraged it; that, they knew now, had been a mistake. Each day Hank spent in the lab he grew more wan, more drawn, and above all more obsessive. In the past week he had left it only to eat and she assumed sleep—though it didn’t seem totally unreasonable to think he hadn’t slept at all, with how haggard he was looking lately. 

“Are you making any progress?” she dared to ask for the first time in three days. He didn’t reply, didn’t even look up from his microscope. “…Okay.” The lab was a mess. Jean’s high school science teachers would have screamed at the sight of it. And docked a _lot_ of points, for improper equipment care and probably unsafe disposal too. 

“You should probably get some sleep at some point,” she pointed out. “You’ll be better off if you’ve slept before the transformation, right?” 

“I’ll be better off if I find a cure before the transformation,” Hank muttered. Jean sighed. 

“… Right.” 

“Wish I had Stryker’s notes,” he added, she thought mostly to himself. 

“They’re probably in a file cabinet somewhere in Washington,” said Jean. “Or buried somewhere under Cleveland.” 

“Yeah. I know. They’d just make this so much—exponentially easier, probably. Faster. Could start where he left off, instead of having to—ugh!” He shoved the microscope away, flinging up his hands in frustration. Then he rounded on Jean, who couldn’t quite keep from shrinking back at the slightly manic look on his face. “Do we have any wolfsbane?” 

“I—um—I don’t know?” She shrugged helplessly. Hank sighed. 

“Right. Okay.” He peeled off his gloves and threw them into a nearby wastebasket rather more violently than seemed necessary. “You’re right,” he said miserably, shrugging off the white coat too. “I’m just going to go to bed.” 

“O—okay.” Jean watched him leave the room with a growing knot of worry in her chest. Seconds after he vanished, the door opened again and a different head poked in. 

“Jean?” said Charles. “Is Hank all right? I just saw—” 

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Not really. He’s—he’s been trying so hard to find a cure, but—” 

“Ah, yes.” Charles sighed. “I keep trying to talk to him about that, but he hasn’t been terribly receptive. Perhaps I should—” he turned as if to go after Hank, but Jean said, 

“No, don’t bother. Not tonight, anyway. He said he was going to bed.” 

“Then let’s let him.” Charles looked at her, then. “Are you doing all right?” 

“What? Oh, yeah,” said Jean. “Just worried about Hank. And tired.” 

“Well, it is getting rather late,” said Charles. “Perhaps we should all follow Hank’s lead. I think I will, anyway.” With a last glance around the lab he added, “good night,” before he walked off. Jean hopped down from the counter where she sat (a blatant lab safety violation of her own) and walked to the door. When she pulled it open and stepped out she nearly ran headlong into Erik, who was standing just outside. 

“Sorry!” said Jean quickly. He just nodded. “Um—what are you doing there?” 

“Nothing,” said Erik tersely. His eyes were trained on something beyond her. She glanced down the hall to see the last of Charles vanishing up the stairs. 

“Right. Okay.” Jean flicked off the light switch and shut the door behind her. “Good night!” 

“If you say so,” she heard Erik mutter as she started off toward her bedroom. When she walked past Hank’s door, it was closed and the light was off. Good. 

Or not good, as it turned out: around midnight Jean was awakened again by a loud, unfamiliar roar that jolted her right out of bed. For a minute she just stood there, getting her bearings, letting the adrenaline run down (some Slayer instinct she hadn’t known she had seemed to be screaming _dragon_ , which didn’t seem very likely) before she accidentally broke something. Then she ran to her window and shoved her head between the heavy curtains to press her nose to the glass. 

Distantly, through a haze of white—when had it started to snow again?—she could see the motorcycle vanishing down the drive and into the woods. Hank. 

“Charles!” she yelled. 

  


  


Are you _fucking_ kidding me, Charles did not actually say out loud to the terrified teenager before him. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for that; well done, Charles. Instead he said, 

“Well, that’s not what we want. Come on, let’s wake Logan.” 

“Already up.” Logan’s door slammed shut behind him and he came trudging down the hall toward them. “I’m a bit of a light sleeper round this time.” He didn’t exactly look it—there were great dark circles under his eyes, and perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but Charles thought he looked rather clammy. 

“Well then,” he said. “Do you think you’re up to tracking Hank? He seems to have run off.” 

“Should be able to,” said Logan. “Nose is going a little crazy at the moment, of course, but I can probably pick him out.” 

“Good,” said Charles. “You two go to the car. I’ll go wake Erik.” 

“Do we _have_ to bring him?” Logan didn’t so much grumble as whine, more a sad puppy than a gruff wolf. Perhaps that should have worried Charles still more, but at the moment there were just a few too many things in his priorities that stood ahead of Logan’s well-being. 

“Yes,” he said firmly. “If nothing else, we may need him to drive.” With that he turned and walked off down the hall toward Erik’s room, leaving werewolf and Slayer to sort themselves out. 

In truth he wasn’t entire certain what he would find in a visit to Erik; in the weeks since his return from California he had been withdrawn and, in the moments he did emerge to interact with the rest of the house, skittish. Charles wasn’t certain what had happened—they hadn’t had a chance for a proper conversation, not that he was sure Erik would have told him much anyway—but he was certain that _something_ had happened out there to spook him. 

Erik took a few moments to open his door after Charles knocked, and when at last he did he looked exhausted, just shy of abjectly miserable. 

“Charles,” he said. “What do you want?” 

“Hank has run away,” said Charles shortly. “We need to go after him.” Erik didn’t react at first, just stood there gazing at him, unblinking. “Erik?” 

“So go,” said Erik. “Thanks for the heads up, I suppose.” 

“I meant you should come with us,” Charles emphasized. Finally Erik blinked, and shook his head. 

“I—no. I can’t—can’t do that.” 

“Why not?” But Erik said nothing, just shrugged and looked down. After a long moment of silence Charles sighed his frustration and said, “fine. Have it your way. If you won’t come with us, stay here and keep an eye out, would you? Hank may come back before the rest of us return, I expect tomorrow.” He turned to go. 

“Wait,” said Erik suddenly. “The rest of you? You’re taking Jean?” 

“She’s close to Hank,” said Charles. In truth it hadn’t occurred to him _not_ to take Jean; she was meant to stand at the center of their little team, after all. “And I expect she’ll come in handy if we run into any trouble along the way. She’s getting to be quite a skilled fighter.” 

“She’s also a _target_ for trouble, Erik pointed out. “It doesn’t seem safe to take her off the property again.” 

“If you’re worried about our safety, Erik, by all means, do come along.” It came out sharper than he had intended, but Erik didn’t look terribly wounded—instead he just gazed at Charles critically, and for a moment seemed on the verge of changing his mind. Then—no. He smiled thinly and shook his head. “Right. See you tomorrow.” 

“Be safe,” he thought he heard Erik say as he left, but when he glanced back Erik was gone and the door had shut without a sound. 

  


“Can you smell him?” Jean asked hopefully once they were outside. Logan concentrated, struggling to separate out Hank’s scent from the rest that crowded through his senses to muddle his brain. Human, _frustration_ , mud, vampire—not a threat, he told his delicately-balanced instincts firmly, keep looking— _regret_ , grass, tree, squirrel _(squirrel)_ , crow, human, _rage_ , snow, smoke, _fear_ , rain—fear—for an instant he thought he caught a snatch—but that might just have been the _femaledangeryoungburningfrightened_ —no. Might have been _Jean_ —beside him. 

“Could you go stand over there?” he asked, waving a hand vaguely off to their right. Jean complied, and the burning scent lessened a little. Wasn’t so sharp in his nostrils. After that run-in with the English chick in November Logan had realized that was just how all Slayers smelled to him, like fire and the stars and ancient cosmic power. And that Jean, in comparison to one who had just scissor-kicked him in the sternum, was more like the gentle warmth of the sun than the acrid burning _danger_ of an unknown, hostile Slayer—but to some primal, demonic instinct, the threat that lay in the scent of any Slayer was still almost overpowering. He wasn’t really sure how Hank managed it, hanging around her as much as he did; maybe his senses just weren’t as sharp. Course, it was a lot worse now than usual, as the full moon counted down the hours to arrival—if he let his focus drift off Logan could swear he could almost _feel_ the damn rock making its way _fear_ around the planet _there—_

“Would it help if you had something of his?” Jean asked nervously, “like a shirt or—” but Logan was already off. “Hey!” she yelled, and came chasing after him. Within a minute they were crashing through the woods, and within another, even dodging trees, she had caught up. Guess that settled _that_ question. “Where are you going?” 

Nowhere. Right. Charles _malefriendlystarsmagicsorrow_ had said to get the car ready. Car. Not tracking on foot—why would they track on foot? They weren’t _hunting_. Come on, you dumb animal, he growled to the part of his brain that had taken over just then— _get a fuckin’ grip._

“Let’s get to the car,” he grumbled, and stalked off back through the woods more or less the way they had come. Jean jogged beside him to keep up; sure, she could outrun him with Slayer strength or whatever, but walking his legs were still longer. 

“Are you okay?” she asked. She sounded worried, and Logan felt bad; of all the things here, he should be the last she would have to worry about. He shrugged. 

“I’m stable.” For now. He didn’t add it, but it probably came through in his tone. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” said Jean. Logan shook his head. 

“Not your problem, kid,” he said. “This is my cross to—holy _shit!_ ” Logan stopped in his tracks, nearly bowled over by a massive wave of _bloodcoldstarsdustbloodevil_ blood— 

“What?” Jean exclaimed, overtaking it with a flash of young female fear. 

“Vampire.” Logan sniffed around for it, and, finding it again, stepped between her and the direction it blew from. 

“Don’t freak out,” said Jean warily. “We’re right near the cemetery, see? It’s probably an old scent from there.” She pointed, and Logan looked—indeed they were; he could see the mausoleum through the trees, and when he paid attention he could smell the decay from here. There was a hint of vampire within it, but it was stale, definitely at least a couple months old—not like what he had caught. 

“This was fresh.” But when he looked around again it was fainter, then gone entirely. 

“Well, even so, it couldn’t be on the property,” said Jean quite reasonably, “So we’re okay for the moment. Come on. Let’s get to the car.” 

“Yeah. Okay.” Logan followed her out of the woods and down across the lawn. Casting around for Hank again, after a moment he—came up with nothing. His brain was still all lit up with vampire-scented panic, and what traces of young male terrified werewolf there had been was overpowered by it all around him. 

Shit. 

  


“Well,” said Charles when at last he arrived, alone, looking a little anxious and rather disgruntled, “I guess that’s out. Do we have any other way to track him? Any idea where he’s gone?” 

“Dunno,” said Logan miserably. “I’m sorry, I—I had it, but then—” 

“Cleveland,” said Jean over him. Both men turned to look at her. 

“What?” said Charles. 

“He wanted Stryker’s notes,” Jean told them—“he was talking about them earlier. Maybe he’s gone to try and find his lab reports, or whatever they call them in actual labs that aren’t high school.” 

“Still lab reports,” said Charles, frowning. Logan looked slightly ill. “It’s eight hours to Cleveland, I believe—at least, so I recall.” 

“You’ve been to Cleveland?” 

“Yes, my father took us there once.” 

“The fuck he do that for?” Logan snarled, a sudden outburst that made both the others jump. “Not really the place for a family vacation.” 

“No, indeed.” Charles laughed nervously. “But there is a Hellmouth there, and he wanted us to know what it felt like to stand on top of one.” 

“Huh.” Logan shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and looked down. Jean wondered how good an idea it was, really, to take him to Cleveland. He seemed very unwell just at the thought. 

“It’s probably an experience you should have, too,” Charles said to her now. “Speaking as a Watcher.” He sighed. “All right—I’ll tell you what. We’ll drive that way, and if Logan catches the scent again he’ll tell us, and if we happen to catch up to Hank along the way, all the better. _And_ , if we get there in the morning and find nothing, we’ll find somewhere to stay long enough to get some rest, and try to be back by moonrise tomorrow, because I told Erik we would and we wouldn’t want him to worry.” He looked back and forth between the two of them. “Yes?” 

“Okay,” said Jean hurriedly. Logan wasn’t so forthcoming; he just grunted something that sounded vaguely affirmative and walked around the car to climb into the passenger’s seat. That relegated Jean to the back, then. She sighed; she might have expected as much. Charles moved to get in, too, but she looked around then and thought to ask, “where’s Erik?” Charles sighed, and his forehead creased a little in a faint scowl. 

“He’s not coming,” he said shortly. “Now let’s go before anyone else changes their mind.” 

  


Charles walked away, and Erik closed the door and tried to convince himself it would be fine. Charles was right, after all; Jean was growing into a true Slayer, well-suited to the monster-killing she was born for. But at the same time, he couldn’t quite shake the creeping, chilling sensation that had crawled along his skin for weeks now: Shaw was still out there. He was still after her. He had killed her father—he had sent Azazel for her—fuck, he might even have Wolfram & Hart on his side. Standing behind him, at least, in the background, in the way a demonic law firm kept on retainer would. 

It would be fine. It would be _fine_. They would all be fine. 

It was late, he thought. At this juncture any sensible person would probably go back to bed. Erik liked to think of himself as being a fairly sensible person, so here he decided he was just the exception to the rule. He didn’t feel particularly tired anymore; indeed he was nigh overcome with anxiety, or would be if he sat here much longer. He couldn’t stay still. Suddenly the room felt too small. He stood, and paced. 

It was too worrying, the thought that something might happen to him— _to them_ —and Erik wouldn’t be there to look out for him. Them. But at the same time, he couldn’t go. He couldn’t. 

He expanded his pacing beyond his bedroom, to wander along the halls of the big house. He knew most of it fairly well by now, so he thought—he had been here long enough—but sometimes he would open a door or turn down a hall and encounter something completely unexpected. 

In this instance, that something was a spiral staircase in a small, tall, circular room that appeared to extend up at least two stories, possibly more. It was wrought-iron, black in those areas not covered in blood-colored rust, and had no railing. All in all it didn’t look terribly stable—like everything else in the house, it seemed, it had fallen into ill repair—but Erik wasn’t overly consumed by little things like his own safety. He tested the first stair with one foot, and when it held he decided that was a good enough sign for him and, undaunted, began to climb. 

It was a long walk up (he seemed to have underestimated the distance), but Erik was hardly bothered by the exertion. He rarely was. After several minutes of climbing, which he was sure must have taken him up at least four stories (were there even four stories to the house? Well—including the attic, he supposed there must be), he came to a landing, where he paused for a moment to get his bearings. 

The ceiling here was low, only six feet; if he stood up straight his head brushed it uncomfortably. Xaviers, he supposed, were not terribly tall people—Charles certainly wasn’t. Looking around, he found that aside from going back down the stairs the landing had two exits: a regular, if slightly small door in the wall beside him, and a trapdoor above his head. It looked wide enough such that Logan could fit through it, if just barely; Erik, rail-thin, would have an easier time of it. He smiled to himself for a moment at the darkly amusing mental image of the big werewolf stuck in this cramped space, and, spurred by mirth to curiosity, pulled on the trapdoor handle and ducked out of the way to avoid the cascade of dust that fell around him as the wooden panel swung down. 

When the dust cleared he looked up to see a series of rungs on the back of the trapdoor, wrought of the same dark metal as the stairs (though thankfully not as rusted). Erik climbed them in a few swift movements and hoisted himself into the room above. Once he was all the way up and standing in the chamber above, the trapdoor helpfully closed itself beneath him. 

The room he stood in was small and circular—spherical, actually, except for the floor he stood on: a dome. Looking around, Erik wondered for a moment how he had never noticed this particular feature of the house before—it might not be visible from the ground immediately surrounding the house, as it was at the center of the flat roof, which was likely too broad, but surely it should be in sight from the cemetery—but then this was a Watcher stronghold, and who knew what kind of enchantments might be worked to hide parts of it, especially from strangers like him? Frankly, now he thought about it, he was surprised he had been able to get up here at all. 

The domed ceiling, such as it was, was made up of leaded glass panels. Most of them were like curved windowpanes, all clear, offering what would have been a lovely view of the grounds and the stars above had it not been night, and the stars all hidden by clouds. Along the floor, about a foot high, the clear panels were replaced by a band of stained glass. When Erik crouched to examine it more closely he realized the panels depicted what appeared to be scenes from the Slayer’s many millennia of history. The nearest panel depicted a formal, old-fashioned ball—England’s Regency era, if Erik wasn’t mistaken. To its left, the glass image was of a young girl with a staff fighting a vampire in a scene framed by small, perhaps Chinese motifs, while to its right a blonde form in white burned bound to a pole. The next panel to the right of that one showed a different young blonde girl (they were so many of them young blonde girls) dressed in the uniform of der Bund Deutscher Mädel staking a vampire dressed in the uniform of the SS. Erik hissed through his teeth, an automatic response more than anything else, and turned his eyes to next panel. 

Another blonde girl stood between a tall, cloaked vampire and the fallen body of a balding man—her Watcher, Erik knew, her father. As he realized the panel’s significance, his blood ran cold. He wondered if Charles had been up here since then (or ever); he hoped, for his sake, that he hadn’t. 

Erik looked up (anywhere, really, anywhere else, but his eyes caught on the dome’s highest point) and found that there was another, circular panel above, clear as the rest but glowing red around the edges. When he stood to examine it he found that it reflected a circular plate of glass set into a sort of altar at the center, about waist-height. The glass seemed to flicker with faint snatches of images that appeared and vanished too quickly for even Erik’s brain to really process them. He thought for an instant he saw Jean among them, but it might have been just a trick of his worried imagination. When he looked up again the red glow had coalesced into five points of light. He wondered what those meant. 

Charles would explain, probably—perhaps. But Charles wasn’t here. Erik sighed and kicked at the trapdoor; it opened, and he climbed down. 

Erik had not always been a good man. Hell, he wasn’t always certain he was a good man now. So, when he reached the bottom of the spiral staircase and emerged back into the hall just off Charles’ study, he felt very little compunction about borrowing a glass of whiskey from the small bar beside the fireplace. 

On second thought, he borrowed the whole bottle, sitting down with it to watch the waxing moon rise over the tops of the darkened trees. Alcohol, at least, might soothe the worries that still hadn’t gone away. If nothing else, it might let him drift off into thinking about something, anything, other than the man he was stealing it from. 

  


Charles would very much have liked a drink at that moment, except that he was driving, and though he might not presently feel much remorse at the thought of drunkenly crashing into a tree and killing _Logan_ , that wouldn’t be fair to Jean. Three hours in, so far there had been no sign of Hank along the road, not that Charles thought they would necessarily have known him in the dark, particularly when the one person who might have been their lookout had spent all his time so far complaining about Charles’ driving instead. 

“Who even taught you to drive?” Logan was growling now. “The fuckin’ Illinois Nazis?” 

“What?” said Charles, looking at him in confusion, to which the werewolf only snarled, 

“Keep your eyes on the road!” 

“Has it occurred to you,” Charles asked through gritted teeth, “that your equilibrium may well be a touch off due to the phase of the moon, and my driving is in fact just fine?” 

“Nah, Chuck,” Logan replied, “I’m pretty sure it’s that your driving’s shit.” 

“Jean?” Charles glanced in the rearview mirror out of the corner of his eye. “How are you doing?” Jean had been very quiet in the back seat for the entire trip so far, and now just shrugged, wide-eyed. “Okay then.” This was exactly why he had wanted Erik to come along, not that he would admit it to Logan: none of them left the property much to begin with, and until tonight—well, actually Charles couldn’t remember how long it had been since he last drove (months, probably a year, possibly several). He had figured it would be like riding a bicycle—you never forgot. Not that he had ever been terribly good at riding a bicycle to begin with. Still, he thought he was driving very well, considering. “Anyway,” he added to Logan, “you’re certainly in no state to drive.” Logan grunted unhappily, but he didn’t disagree. 

Then a deer stepped out into the rode a few hundred feet down. Jean, spotting it in the same instant Charles did, shrieked; Charles slammed on the brakes, and Logan swore fluently. They skidded to a stop less than a meter from the frozen animal, who remained there staring into the headlights for several seconds before bolting off. Charles carefully pulled onto the shoulder and parked. 

“See?” he said, a little winded. “It’s fine. It’s fine. We’re all fine.” Aside from his heart feeling like it might jump out of his chest and run off, anyway. 

“Maybe I could drive,” Jean piped up at last. 

“You can drive?” said Charles, looking around at her. She nodded. 

“Sure. I have a license and everything.” She smiled weakly. “I _am_ almost seventeen, you know.” 

“True.” Charles sighed. “All right. Why don’t you drive for a while, then? If it’s all right with Logan.” 

“Yuh,” Logan more groaned than actually said. Being a little shaky after this near-horrific-accident experience, Charles decided to take that as an affirmation and got out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition for Jean as they switched places. 

“Okay,” he heard her say quietly to herself. “You’re in control. Ready, set, go.” Slowly the car began to move. Charles had to admit it was smoother than his driving had been. Logan seemed content, too, though he suspected even if he wasn’t he wouldn’t complain to Jean as he had to Charles—though he was unpleasant to Charles (and Erik) as a matter of course, he was always gentle with her. And Hank. The poor boy… 

  


When Jean dared glance away from the road, Charles appeared to have fallen asleep in the back seat. Logan looked to be dozing, too, but when she looked at him he cracked an eye open to look back. She jumped, tried not to let it affect her driving, and quickly returned her gaze to the road ahead. 

“Don’t worry, kid,” he mumbled, “you’re doin’ just fine.” With that, it seemed, he fell asleep for real. 

Jean drove on through the night, calm and steady and just barely feeling sleepy at all, until about an hour later she happened to glance down at the gas gauge and the bottom dropped out of her stomach at the sight of that little hand pointing to empty. Thankfully it wasn’t long before she got to the next gas station, 76 sign stretching high into the sky like a welcoming beacon, in what seemed to be more a single well-populated street than an actual town. She reached into her sweatshirt pocket and found her wallet; rifling through it she found only a single ten dollar bill. It wasn’t like she had reason to keep much money on her, and of course only now did it occur to her that it might be a good idea to ask Sara for a debit card now that Sara, being an adult, had control over the account with their inheritance. For now, she didn’t want to wake up Charles, let alone Logan, so ten dollars worth of gas would have to do. That was about a tank. Probably. Okay, it was like half a tank, but it would get them a ways, and maybe by then one of the others would be awake. 

“Hey there.” She was halfway across the parking lot to go pay for the gas when a voice stopped her dead in her tracks. A young man smirked at her from where he leaned on a shiny black car parked in one of the spaces outside the tiny gas station store. “How’s your night going?” 

Jean said nothing, just looked away and kept walking. 

“Girl like you, you’re way too pretty to be driving that old piece of junk,” the guy continued, louder. “Bet I can show you a better ride.” Jean was all set to just continue to ignoring him and wondering if he realized he was a talking cliché, but then just as she got to the curb (and the light, thank god) he suddenly moved toward her in a way predatory enough to light up the very deepest of her Slayer instincts, the one that said _vampire._ She carried a stake everywhere, though, now (thanks, Hank, even if it was mostly his fault she was out here anyway), and as she spun on her heel to face the aggressor she reached into her hoodie for it— 

“Doubt it,” said a different man’s deep, sneering voice. Out of nowhere Logan loomed behind her, setting one hand on her shoulder, possessive. The guy’s eyes widened—human, still, his forehead smooth aside from the obviously-growing fear. “Come on,” said Logan, and steered her into the shop. 

“I could have handled that,” Jean hissed as he let go of her, turning to face him with crossed arms and a scowl. 

“You were about to stake a guy who wasn’t actually a vamp,” Logan muttered back with a wary glance at the one other person in the building, a cashier behind the counter who looked half-asleep. 

“Seemed like one to me!” 

“Course he did, he’s a creepy guy trying to get a young woman into his car in the middle of the night, that’s the modern vampire’s MO—” Logan shook his head. “But I could smell him.” 

“Oh.” Right. 

“I don’t blame you for being jumpy.” Logan shrugged. “But my way was a hell of a lot cleaner.” 

“Fine.” Jean tossed her head as she turned away again. “Just let me pay for the gas so we can get out of here.” 

“Nah, I’ll buy it,” said Logan. “You should get back in the car before you get the urge to go all Faith Lehane on anyone else’s ass.” If Jean had been a bit younger she would have stuck out her tongue, and had she been a bit less polite she would have given him the finger, but as she was herself all she did was glare at him for a moment before she stalked out. 

Somehow, when she got to the car, Charles was still sound asleep. She sat there waiting for the minutes it took for Logan to fill up the tank, silently stewing. So maybe the stake wasn’t the best first response in every case. But she was a _vampire slayer _. It was literally her job title—literally her _species_ , possibly, since she was pretty sure being one made her not quite human anymore. What if he had been a vampire? What would Logan have done then? __

(Let her deal with it, probably, said her common sense, since he would have _known_ , and only jumped in if it looked like she was going to get overpowered. Sometimes her common sense was kind of annoying, in that way it had of usually being right.) 

Then Logan got back in the car and she had to focus again. She started the car and couldn’t help saying, under her breath, “you’re in control.” In her mind she could still hear Dad saying it, trying to assuage her fears about driving from the very earliest. “Ready—” put it in drive— “set—” hands at the ten and the two— “go.” Foot off the brake, and they slid out of the gas station and back onto the road. The dashboard clock read 4 AM, and the adrenaline, which had, at least, served to wake her up a _lot_ , was starting to work its way out of her system. Jean sighed, blinked, and turned on the radio, fiddling with the tuning dial through static, static, and more static, until a station came through loud and clear and all of a sudden they were blasting decade-old Mariah Carey. She twisted hard on the volume dial, but not fast enough: Logan made an angry sound and clapped his hands over his ears, and in the back seat Charles jerked awake. 

“Turn it _off_ , Raven!” he snapped, then seemed to realize where he was. In the rearview mirror Jean saw his face fall. “Sorry,” he added, quieter. Within moments he was asleep again, leaving the car quiet but for the music. Jean tightened her grip on the steering wheel and tried to concentrate on the road. 

“Jean,” said Logan some time later, surprising her, mostly because she wasn’t sure she remembered him ever calling her by her name, or, actually, by anything other than ‘kid’. 

“Mm?” 

“I know you could’ve handled it,” he said. “At the gas station. I know you probably wouldn’t’ve staked the guy, just scared the shit out of him, and that would’ve been pretty funny, actually—” he paused. “But I didn’t want to run the risk.” 

“I know.” Jean nodded. “It’s okay.” 

“Kay.” He turned away to gaze out the window. “Just wanted to make sure you knew.” 

Jean just smiled and drove on. 

  


Erik’s first thought, on waking up, was that he hadn’t realized he could even _get_ hungover. It had been so long since he was drunk at all—and, natürlich, that was probably why. He had been younger then, and happier, and less… gedämpft. 

Erik’s second thought, on opening his eyes to discover he hadn’t closed the curtains and, with morning, the sun was now streaming through the window and directly into his face, was _Gott, it burns._

  


Charles woke as the car rolled to a stop outside a McDonalds. He squinted out the car window at the golden arches through the cold winter-morning sunlight, shaking his head to try and clear it of sleep. 

“Really?” he asked. “Was there absolutely nowhere else?” 

“It’s cheap,” said Jean at the same time Logan said, 

“It’s _Cleveland_.” 

They ordered their egg mcmuffins and hash browns and crowded into a booth around a shiny, slightly sticky red plastic table. Logan picked at his food with a look of general distaste. Jean didn’t even touch hers. She looked, now, nearly as ill as Logan, worryingly pale aside from the dark circles under her eyes, though at least in this case Charles could be sure of her troubles’ cause. The Slayer had been awake for far too long. 

Unfortunately, she would have to be awake a while longer before all was said and done. Charles finished his breakfast (insofar as it could be called by that name) and turned his attention to their mission. 

“So!” he said. Logan gave no indication of having heard him. Jean turned her head just enough to look at him. “Here we are. Logan, do you think you can remember where in Cleveland we need to go?” Now Logan looked up with a shrug. 

“Let me walk around a little,” he said. “Get away from the smell of this shit, and… maybe.” Charles supposed that would have to do. 

“Jean?” he said. She just blinked at him. “You ought to at least eat something,” Charles told her. She took a single bite of her hash brown patty and set it down again. “Perhaps coffee,” he suggested. Her eyes widened; she nodded. 

They ordered coffee and left. Charles drove; no one complained. Admittedly he wasn’t sure they were awake enough to complain, or paying attention enough. Logan sat with the passenger’s-side window open, eyes roving over the grimy urban landscape as it passed by all around them. 

“No Hank,” he said after a few blocks. “Doesn’t mean he hasn’t been here, of course—there’s a lot more smells to pick out from round here.” 

“All right,” said Charles. “And the Initiative?” 

“Nothing yet.” 

“Do you recognize the streets?” Charles asked, hoping for something, anything to make this trip other than a great and terribly inconvenient waste of time. “Any of the places?” 

“No,” said Logan uncertainly, but then—“ _yes_.” He sat up very straight. “That place. Dukes.” He pointed to a run-down, boarded-up building in the middle of the block. 

“A bar?” Charles asked, slowing down to peer out at the establishment. A once-neon sign jutted out over a sunken doorway. (There was no apostrophe—strange.) It _looked_ like a bar. 

“Nah,” said Logan. “That’s not right, but I can’t…” he frowned, eyes narrowing in concentration. “…Fight club.” 

“Well, then, I guess we can’t talk about it,” said Charles lightly. Logan gave him a look. 

“No, it’s a boxing gym,” he said. “Or—it was.” 

“All right.” Charles pulled around to circle the block again. “Was it connected to Stryker?” 

“Dunno.” Logan shrugged. “I just know I used to go there. Before I was me. You know?” 

“Right. Well, perhaps it can be a starting point, then.” Charles made the turns and parked, perhaps badly, in front of the place. As they got out, the street was mostly deserted. 

“Yeah, I remember this,” said Logan, looking around. Walking into the alcove that set the door back from the street, Charles ran a hand over one of the boards nailed haphazardly across it. Tattered posters still hung in the windows, advertising various boxing matches long over. Most prominent among them, _Fearless Freddy meets his match! Battlin’ Jack Murdock, all the way from New York City!_ Fearless Freddy, it seemed, had already beaten “the Wolverine”; that poster, smaller and off to one side, was from a year earlier. 

Behind them, Jean set her empty coffee cup precariously atop the contents of an already-overflowing trash can. “Okay,” she said. 

“Feeling better?” Charles asked. The Slayer shrugged. 

“I don’t really feel any less like death, but, you know, I’ll work around it.” 

“That could just be the Hellmouth,” Charles pointed out. “Can you feel it?” Jean shrugged. 

“Maybe?” She frowned. “Can you?” 

“Well, no,” said Charles, “but that’s me, not it. And I remember _how_ —” 

“I think I got it,” said Logan suddenly, snapping Jean and Charles to attention. 

“Which way?” 

“North.” Logan turned that way, head raised high, nostrils flared. “I remember now. Come on.” He started off up the sidewalk. Charles and Jean glanced at each other, then followed. 

  


“So,” said Logan, gesturing to the manhole he insisted was the entrance to Stryker’s lab, once he and Jean had managed to get it open. She kind of wondered how no one had noticed them as they did—it seemed like a pretty conspicuous thing to be doing in the middle of a street in Cleveland. “Who’s going first?” 

“You’re the one who knows where we’re going,” she pointed out. Logan huffed, but nodded and swung down into the opening. 

“Come on,” he said. “You go next, Chuck, so you’re between us. Being the most fragile one here.” 

“Thanks for that,” Charles grumbled, but acquiesced, climbing into the hole considerably less gracefully than Logan had. Going last, Jean found herself consumed with the task of balancing on the steel rungs that would let them climb down without much trouble while simultaneously dragging the cover back over the hole. This, she thought, would be a fantastic time to be able to levitate things with her brain. 

The manhole cover slid into place with a heavy crunch, leaving them in darkness aside from the very limited light offered by the pattern of small holes at the center of the metal disk. Then, slowly, a soft blue glow lit up the dark from below. Jean glanced down (which was probably not the best choice when one was climbing backwards into a black pit of unknown depth) to see Charles with one hand extended out to the center of the tunnel, a light cupped in his palm. With that they could see that just a few feet down, the tunnel would fan out behind them like half of an upside-down funnel. 

It wasn’t too far a climb down from here to a railed ledge; all three hastened until they could all stand on it and look out over what remained of the Cleveland Initiative. A massive chamber spread out beneath them, a laboratory that would have easily held two high school football stadiums. It was all dark, but Charles reached out his hand and the glow in his palm brightened, casting limited light over the metal tables and computer stands closest to them. Jean leaned forward on the railing, the better to see. 

It creaked under her weight, then all at once it broke off and went tumbling down. The only thing that kept Jean from falling the several stories between the ledge and the steel floor below was Logan managing to grab her by the hood and pull her back just in time. Overbalanced, they went tumbling to the ledge as all around them there came a metallic screech and bright white fluorescent lights shuttered to life all around the room, blinding. 

When Jean dared look up again the entire laboratory was illuminated. At this end there were stairs extending down from either side of the ledge, curving slightly against the wall. Standing and dusting herself off (literally—everything was covered in dust), Jean started carefully down the set nearest her. 

Down on the laboratory floor they walked along the aisles between rows of tables and lab stations. Jean looked more closely at a set of tools abandoned in a sink, and immediately wished she hadn’t. The next sink was stained all over with something that looked an awful lot like blood—if it weren’t for the color. She shuddered, and looked around to try and catch sight of Charles or Logan again in the massive space. 

  


Logan, meanwhile, had walked all the way down to the other end of the room, where the funnel curved around an enormous empty tank. Hoselike tubes ending in needles all the length of his middle finger channeled into it; he traced a hand along one, following it to its source—a smaller tank full of cooled, solid metal—and when he drew back he immediately regretted it. His skin prickled with irritation that rapidly spread up his arm and through his torso. For a moment he thought he was about to puke. Silver. 

Logan stumbled back, falling into and knocking over a table with a loud crash. He could smell him. Both of them. Stryker, Creed—Stryker was here with him, he saw him, could see him looming over him, see his face… Logan, he kept saying. Logan, look at me. Logan. He shook his head. “Hold him.” Always the good puppy, Creed pounced to sit on his chest, pinning him down, but he got an arm free and lashed out— 

“Logan!” Jean caught his forearm in an iron grip mid-swing. “Are you okay?” 

“No,” he gasped—it was a little hard to breathe with her knees digging into his ribs. She was stronger than he had realized. That answered that one too. “Duh,” Logan choked, and struggled enough that Jean let up, stepping back warily. 

“No, indeed,” said Charles, who stood beside her, gazing down at him critically. “You don’t look it.” 

“Hank’s not here,” said Jean. “If he ever was.” 

“I think not.” Charles sighed, looking around as Logan struggled up onto his feet. “Should we see if we can find some lab reports to take for him, just in case?” 

“No,” said Logan. They looked at him. The room was moving around him, or maybe he was just swaying on his feet. 

“Um, Logan,” said Jean— 

“No one should ever do that shit again,” Logan insisted. “Don’t—” 

“Yeah, I agree.” Jean looked at Charles. “Hank’s wrong on this one. When we find him, we shouldn’t encourage him.” 

“All right.” Charles nodded. “Then let’s get out of here and find somewhere to rest for a while.” 

“Okay.” But rather than start for the exit, Jean edged closer to Logan. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Do you need any help to get back up there?” 

“Nah.” Logan shook his head to clear it, and the room stopped spinning. Some. “I’m fine.” 

“If you say so.” She didn’t look totally convinced—if he was her he definitely wouldn’t be—but he just walked off, stumbling only a little, and after a moment sensed the movement as the other two followed. 

  


“How many nights?” 

“We just need a room for a few hours,” said Charles. The receptionist raised a single heavily-plucked eyebrow. 

“It’s a flat fee.” 

“One, then.” He met her eyes and tried to offer a cheery, innocent smile; probably his effort only made things worse. Had he been at full power he might have glanced into her mind to see just what was behind the mildly suspicious look she wore, though as soon as he thought it now he realized he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Whatever they looked like—Jean, and Logan, and Charles, or to a stranger’s eyes an exhausted and clearly-underage girl, a man who looked, quite frankly, high, and another with the resources on him to pay for a hotel room, one for all three of them for ‘just a few hours’, in cash (and he and Jean were both still in just pajamas under their jackets, which he somehow hadn’t realized until now)—no, there was pretty much no way in hell it was good. Then again, in a manner of speaking they _were_ in Hell, and she probably saw even more-suspicious characters through all the time. That should not have been as comforting a thought as it was. 

Once again he wished Erik was here, if only because he imagined Erik would be a lot better at staring down a serviceperson who probably thought he was some kind of sex-trafficking drug lord than Charles was. Which also, probably, should not have been a comforting thought. Still, it was that wish that, once they were safely in the room and Jean and Logan had each claimed a bed, led him to pick up the phone and dial (literally dial—it was an old phone) the number for the house, desperately hoping it wouldn’t be long distance. 

It went through, and after three rings was picked up with a wary, “Hello?” 

“Erik!” Charles sighed in relief, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. “God, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.” 

“Er,” said Erik. “Thank you? Where are you?” 

“Cleveland,” said Charles. “Presently we’re regrouping at a motel where I’m fairly certain the receptionist now thinks I’m some kind of organized crime—something—” he could have sworn he heard a snort on the other end—“but with any luck we should be home by moonrise.” 

“Well, I’d hope so,” said Erik, “considering you have—ow—a werewolf in your midst. One that attacked you last month, if you may—ah, Scheiße.” 

“Are you all right?” Charles frowned. 

“I’m fine,” Erik said shortly. “My head hurts, that’s all.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Charles. “There’s some aspirin in the upstairs bathroom in my wing, or should be. He heard some loud thumping and a bit more swearing from the other end, then— 

“I have my own, thanks.” Erik sighed. “There, that’s better.” There was an audible pause on his end. “By the way, I may have drunk some of your liquor. I hope that’s all right.” Charles laughed aloud—he couldn’t help it, though he turned quickly to make sure he hadn’t awakened his sleeping companions. Jean remained thoroughly unconscious; Logan was rolled onto his side facing away, so Charles couldn’t really tell. 

“Oh, is _that_ why your head hurts?” he asked, quieter if still not bothering to mask his amusement. 

“…Yes.” 

“Well, by all means, my friend,” said Charles, “you’re welcome to it.” He paused, brief good mood darkening a little. “I suppose there’s been no sign of Hank, or you would have said immediately.” 

“You suppose correctly.” 

“Nor here, I’m afraid.” He sighed. “We do need to get Logan back, though, if only to make sure he’s contained.” 

“Rough day?” said Erik, and for once when it came to Logan he actually sounded sympathetic. Though perhaps the sympathy was intended for Charles; it was hard to know. 

“You might say that.” They remained silent for a moment. 

“Well,” Erik finally said. “Drive safely. I hope to see you soon.” 

“Yes,” said Charles hastily, “I—and you. You too.” 

“All right.” Another pause, and then, “Goodbye, Charles.” 

“Goodbye.” Charles waited for the click on the other end before he hung up the phone. 

“Gotta keep me contained, huh?” said Logan quietly, making him jump. 

“Er—” 

“I’m not offended.” The big werewolf sat up slowly, gingerly on his bed. “I agree.” 

“Oh.” Charles crossed the room to take the threadbare armchair in the corner. 

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” Logan continued. “All of a sudden. The silver, maybe, but it looks like the silver’s always been there.” 

“Indeed.” Charles leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “I suppose it may be partly psychosomatic, but—” 

“Feels like I’m goin’ psycho, all right,” Logan muttered. 

“No, that’s not—” Charles shook his head. “Psychosomatic just means your body is reacting in the way your brain expects it should, even if you aren’t actually hurt or sick. Now that you know the silver’s there, I expect that may be part of it—what?” Logan was smirking. 

“Thanks, Prof,” he said. 

“I am not a professor,” said Charles a touch irritably. After all, he hadn’t even finished his master’s degree, and he didn’t much like to think back on why. 

“So it’s all in my mind, huh,” said Logan. “Fantastic.” Charles frowned. 

“Perhaps it’s more than just that, though,” he said. “I did unlock memories in you that were deliberately blocked by a third party. There may be some real physical deterioration associated with the removal of the blocks.” 

“Blocked?” Logan frowned, too. “What do you mean, I was brainwashed?” 

“Something like that.” 

“Huh.” Logan lay back against his pillows. “Well, thanks, I guess. For un-brainwashing me.” 

“Don’t thank me if it’s making you ill,” said Charles. Logan shook his head. 

“Nah, it’s better that I know. Even if it does fuck me up a little.” He closed his eyes. “And since it does, you’re right. I should be contained.” 

“You’re not going to make Jean drive all the way back, are you?” Charles asked as it occurred to him. Logan glanced over at the sleeping Slayer in the next bed. 

“Nah,” he said again. “I’m feelin’ a little better. Tonight might be an okay wolf, you know?” 

“Sure,” said Charles, who really didn’t know at all. “I just ask because—well, we can’t stay here too long, not if we want to be back—” 

“Before moonrise, yeah.” 

“Speaking of the wolf.” 

“Eh,” said Logan. “Wolf’ll be a while. Let her sleep a little longer. Was a long night.” 

“Which she handled admirably,” said Charles. Logan smiled slightly, though he still looked a little pained. 

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s something else.” 

  


Hank wasn’t sure whether to expect relief, anger, or some combination of the two. In fact, all the way back he was so caught up in worrying about it that he completely forgot to factor in this possibility: that of arriving back, just as the sun began to reach for the horizon, to find an empty house. 

He should have known, he thought, and immediately felt a wave of guilt wash through him. They _would_ all be out looking for him. They would be worried. He hadn’t meant to… 

On the other hand, it was probably good that no one else was here; if anyone had been (especially Jean), they probably would have tried to stop him. Hank shut the front door behind him quietly and quietly made his way up to the lab. There he put on rubber gloves and carefully unwrapped the three wilting stems from their cloth. 

“I hope you don’t intend to eat that,” said a voice from the doorway. Hank spun around. Erik stood leaning on the doorframe, immaculate, one eyebrow raised. 

“I thought no one was home,” said Hank. 

“You thought wrong.” Erik strolled into the lab and up to stand near him, nearly at his shoulder. Hank tried not to wrinkle his nose; it was hard enough just to stay standing here when his senses were so delicate, and for whatever reason Erik smelled even more like a threat than he usually did. Though when he looked he thought he saw it in his body language, too, laced with concern and disapproval, intended to intimidate rather than outright frighten, so maybe it wasn’t just the fault of the moon. Erik looked down at the flowers on the counter. “Wolfsbane, if I’m not terribly mistaken.” 

“You’re not.” 

“May I ask, then, what you plan on doing with it?” 

“Extract essential oils,” said Hank, looking around for a press or a vise. “I think they may be the key ingredient I’ve been missing.” 

“The key ingredient for what, exactly?” said Erik. 

“A cure,” Hank explained. 

“A cure,” Erik repeated dubiously. 

“Well—more of a treatment, for the moment.” 

“For lycanthropy?” 

“Yes. And I think I nearly have it,” said Hank, picking up the first blue-violet flower gingerly and setting it on the vise. He pressed down, and oils began to seep from the crushed plant down into a small vial he held there. As the scent reached his hypersensitive nose he had to work hard not to recoil—it was awful. 

“If you’ll pardon my saying so,” said Erik, “it seems to me that this concoction of yours may turn out more poison than antidote.” 

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Hank told him. Before he could move to pick up the second stem, Erik seized his arm in an iron grip. Hank tore out of it and resisted the urge to throw the man across the room. That might break something important, like a machine or a microscope. Or Erik, but he wasn’t as concerned about that. 

“Why would you want to _cure_ your lycanthropy?” Erik asked. “Perhaps you never asked for it, but it’s a part of who you are. The part, in fact, that makes you special. Stronger, faster, _better._ Why seek to change that?” 

“This is not who I am,” Hank snarled. “It doesn’t make me _better_ , it makes me dangerous. I’m a threat to everyone around me. I don’t expect you to understand.” Erik just looked at him for a moment, then turned away. _Good_ , Hank thought brutally, as with shaking hands he opened the drawer that held the bottled remains of his earlier experiments. He uncorked it and poured in the vial he had of wolfsbane oil. It filtered through the liquid, intermixing until it was all one substance. Fumbling around in the next drawer, Hank found a clean syringe. He drew up six milliliters of the cure. 

“You’re going to shoot up wolfsbane?” Erik shook his head. 

“I’m going to administer a treatment,” said Hank through gritted teeth. The sun had sunk halfway below the horizon; the moon would be up soon. “I’m going to go and do that now, if you don’t mind. Or are you going to try and stop me?” 

“I won’t stop you,” said Erik. “I will note that it’s a terrible decision, but you’re an adult, so it’s your terrible decision to make.” 

“Good,” Hank snapped, and stalked out of the lab, taking the syringe with him. 

“You might want to do it in the bunker,” Erik called, following. “In case it doesn’t work.” 

“It’ll work,” said Hank. Downstairs, he flung open the front doors and looked out. The sun was down, and he could feel moonrise approaching in the pit of his stomach. He was running out of time. Hank rolled up his sleeve, pulled it tight, and, once he had the vein, took a deep breath, slid the needle through his skin, and pushed down the plunger. 

Somehow, as the serum poured into his bloodstream, he could feel the blood in moving in his veins as the volatile substances spread up his arm and throughout his body. When it reached his heart he felt it stutter, then stop completely, and for a horrible instant that felt like his last he thought _Erik was right_ —but then his heart started again, and it was all right. He collapsed to his knees, gasping, as the fire of wolfsbane in his veins cooled and for the first time in over a year he felt almost normal again. 

Hank stood on shaky legs to look out at the sky, rapidly darkening now that the sun had set. The nausea that went with the full moon was gone. 

“It worked,” he said, glancing back at Erik, who stood at the top of the stairs looking wary. Hank couldn’t help grinning. “It _worked_.” He looked out again just in time to see the moon rising over the trees. It shone down on him, illuminating the grounds, the house, Hank standing in the doorway, and he felt nothing at all, nothing but relief. Then, out of nowhere, it felt like something exploded in his ribcage, trying to tear its way out. Hank fell to the floor. 

“Hank?” He felt Erik come running down the stairs toward him. “Hank!” Stupid. Stupid, reckless creature, _kill it_ —no. No, he wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t. He’d cured himself of that. He’d tried— 

  


“Are we going to make it?” Jean asked nervously, leaning far enough forward from the back seat that Charles snapped, 

“Put on your seatbelt!” Mollified, Jean sat back in her seat again. Once she had complied, Charles added, kinder, “Of course we are. We’re nearly there, and we’ve plenty of time.” 

“Okay.” She leaned her head on the window and watched the trees fly by. It was hard to know if they were getting close; she had no idea how long they had been driving, but it felt long enough that they should have been there already. 

At last they did pull up to the gate. Charles parked the car and got out to go up and press his hand to the gate, unlocking whatever magical mechanism let a Watcher open it. In the brief second his door was open, Logan’s nostrils flared, his whole body stiffened all at once, and in the blink of an eye his door had slammed behind him, too, as he barreled out of the car and right into the vampire that came leaping out of the woods just then, headed straight for Charles. Acting rather than thinking, Jean opened her door and jumped out of the car after them. 

“No—you—don’t—” Logan grunted. As Jean watched, he pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket and, in one smooth move, shoved it into the vampire’s face. The vampire screamed as his head went up in flames that rapidly consumed his entire body, turning him to dust within seconds. Jean stared; she knew how it worked in theory, but she had never actually _seen_ a vampire get dusted before. 

Then a cold hand seized her shoulder. She twisted out, around, and this time when she went for the stake the instinct took her all the way through. It went into the vampire’s heart much more easily than she had expected—practically a knife through butter (maybe cold butter)—and he lurched forward to hiss in her face before his body dissolved before her, leaving only the afterimage of his skeleton imprinted on her eyelids. 

“Whoa,” she said, turning back to grin at Logan. 

“See, that was a _good_ use of that instinct.” He grinned back for a moment but then snapped up to attention, looking around worriedly. “There’s more,” he said. “You and Chuck better get inside the gate.” 

“What about you?” said Jean. 

“They’re not a threat to me,” Logan told her. “You’re the one they’re after. Go.” 

“Oh, don’t go yet,” said a low voice from behind her. Logan’s eyes widened, and he practically picked Jean up by the shoulders in shoving her around so that he stood between her and Shaw, who emerged from the deepening shadow of the woods with a knowing smile on his face. 

“ _Go,_ ” he snarled again, and this time she did, running for the gate. Not quite fast enough—a cold hand reached for her from around the car where its bearer had been hiding, catching hold of her arm—but Jean managed to keep up enough momentum against the drag to pull the vampire with her until the invisible barrier that marked the edge of the property separated them. Then she was on the other side of the gate, standing beside Charles, as Shaw’s blonde companion flung herself uselessly against the property line, snarling at them with all the pointed teeth in her batlike face. 

“Congratulations on staking your first vampire,” said Charles in an undertone. “That was quite well-handled. I’m very impressed.” 

“Thanks,” said Jean, smiling in spite of the very present danger not far off. 

“What exactly do you intend to do, wolf?” Shaw asked Logan, sounding almost bored. “Kill me? I’d wish you luck, if you stood a chance.” 

“Can’t kill what’s already dead,” said Logan. “But, see, I’ve had a long and pretty shitty day, and now on top of that I have to stand here and smell _your_ filth? Ain’t fuckin’ fair. But,” he added, “on the plus side, there’s a full moon rising up there, so with any luck now I can make _your_ day even worse.” With perfect timing, just like that, he began to transform before them. Jean winced; she could hear bone crunching from here. Soon a black-furred wolf crouched before Shaw, hackles raised, growling menacingly. At any other time the sight might have been comedic—Logan’s shirt was in shreds, and his pants had fared no better, but at least those were actually still on him. Mostly. But Shaw actually looked slightly ruffled; he took a step back. The wolf advanced on him slowly, and slowly his backwards pace increased. 

A howl from far off made everyone stop dead, Logan included. Charles turned toward the house, jaw dropping in horror. 

“Oh, god,” he said. “Hank must already be here.” The howling increased in volume, and, Jean thought, in pain—or rage. “Erik,” Charles whispered. He looked at Jean. “Make sure he gets inside?” She nodded wordlessly, and with a single worried glance back at Logan and the vampires Charles was off and running across the grounds. 

Taking advantage of the distraction, Shaw’s companion leapt on the wolf. Logan’s howl joined with Hank’s in terrible, bone-chilling harmony as he flung her off and back against the barrier before he pounced, cruel fangs headed straight for her throat. She screamed, and Shaw screamed, 

“Emma!” and dragged the wolf off of her, flinging him aside—whoa. Despite the barrier, Jean still took an instinctual step back. She had known vampires were just as superhumanly strong as she was, but—“This isn’t over, Slayer,” Shaw snarled, and, gathering his companion (Emma) into his arms, stormed off back into the woods. Jean let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. 

“Um—okay,” she said. “Logan?” The wolf grunted. It sounded enough like his human self that she laughed, though that might also have been relief. “Uh—come inside?” She pulled one side of the gate open with some effort and beckoned to him. 

The wolf growled at her, crouching, and didn’t come any nearer. 

“Okay,” said Jean. “I mean, I was going to do this the easy way, but.” She pulled out the stake again and raised it high, moving toward him, making herself as menacing as possible. “Come on,” she said under her breath. “Come on, Logan. I’m small and weak. Attack me.” 

And the wolf obeyed. Jean dove into a somersault, kicking the gate closed as she went, letting the wolf fly over her even as he gave a familiar yelp of pain. He landed hard on the ground, twitching. Jean knelt down at his side as fur gave way to skin and Logan became (roughly) human again before her. 

“Ow,” he said. 

“Sorry,” said Jean. “It seemed like the easiest thing to do.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Logan took the hand she offered and groaned as he stood. “I’ll live. Let’s go see how Hank’s doing.” 

“And make sure he didn’t kill Erik.” 

“Eh, I’m not as worried about that,” said Logan. Jean just rolled her eyes and offered him an arm or a shoulder to lean on. He shook his head. “I’m good.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah. Let’s go.” They started off toward the house, moving slowly. Logan’s face twisted in pain every few steps. “You know Hank said the silver on my bones fuckin’ melts during the shift? To ‘accommodate the transformation,’ he said.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Jean again. Logan shrugged. 

“I’m okay.” He glanced down at her. “Know I can count on you if I’m not, anyway.” 

“Yeah,” Jean agreed, “you can.” They made their way through the tall grass that served as the mansion’s lawn, toward the house. It was lit only by the full moon overhead, apart from a single light in a single second-floor window: the lab. 

“Hope the kid’s okay,” Logan mumbled. Jean nodded. 

“I’ll check,” she told him as they reached the wide-open front doors. “You go to bed. It’s been a long day.” 

“No fuckin’ kidding.” Logan paused, though, before he started up the stairs. “You did good, Jean.” 

“With what?” she asked. Logan smiled grimly. 

“All of it.” 

  


Erik managed to shut and latch the grate even as the werewolf flung himself against it, howling still, as he had howled all the way down the stairs. Once it was secure he stepped back to stand with his hands in his pockets, regarding it. 

“I’m sorry,” he told the wolf. “Though really, it’s good you lived, because if you hadn’t—well, I didn’t do anything to stop you, and Charles might have blamed me.” 

The wolf quieted a little, then growled, murderous eyes never leaving him from the other side of the grate. 

“Worse yet,” Erik added softly, “he might have forgiven me.” 

The wolf whined. 

“That’s just how he is.” He shook his head. “Given enough time, it seems, and he can forgive anyone. Except perhaps himself. He should be kinder to himself; he deserves much better than he allows himself.” He barely dared to say it, even to a creature presently lacking a sentient mind: “He deserves the world.” 

The wolf howled again, this time a sound more piteous than angry. 

“What?” said Erik. “You’ll never remember I said any of this. You won’t remember the night at all, probably. Well, I can hope.” He looked down. “Don’t expect me to understand, you said.” He scoffed. “As if I’m not a threat to him. To everyone, but—after what happened the last time I felt—the last person—” 

The wolf circled thrice, and curled up. Curious. 

“I wonder if he could forgive me,” Erik mused. 

The wolf didn’t respond. He hadn’t expected it to. Before he could say anything else, anything more damning, more revealing, there was a heavy _thud_ somewhere above them, followed by several crashes, a shout that sounded awfully like his name, and then the pounding of footsteps on the stairs. Within seconds Charles had come running through the door, nearly bowling Erik over in his haste. 

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Erik took the instinct that suggested he grab Charles and kiss him and killed it, brutally, with an imaginary knife. 

“Erik,” Charles managed after a moment, having caught his breath. “You’re—all right? I heard—” 

“I’m fine,” said Erik quickly. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.” 

“You’re bleeding.” Charles took his hand. Erik breathed in very, very slowly, then out. 

“Just scratches. Don’t worry.” 

“What happened?” Charles looked up at him, his expression one of horror. 

“He was still upstairs—” Erik started to say, and stopped to think, for a moment, how to tell it. “I had to wrestle him down here, because he transformed in the foyer.” Charles looked positively aghast. 

“How did you avoid his teeth?” he asked. “I mean, you must have, or else you’d be—” he dropped Erik’s hand and gestured wordlessly at the wolf in the cage, who was back up and pacing now, eyeing Charles threateningly. Erik shrugged. 

“Very carefully,” he said. Charles stared at him for a moment, clearly still terribly worried. In a wave of profound self-consciousness, Erik slipped the hand Charles had held into his pocket. Then Charles relaxed, shaking his head, even smiling slightly. 

“Well,” he said, turning that smile up toward Erik, “I’m glad you’re all right.” He looked over at the cage, smile fading some. “Is there something wrong with him? He looks—I don’t know, _different_ , than I remember.” 

“He—um—” Erik sighed. “He tried to make a cure. He put wolfsbane in it, and he—er—injected it into his arm. It didn’t work,” he added pointlessly. “Though I suppose that’s obvious.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” said Charles. “How the hell is he _alive?”_

“I’ve no idea, honestly.” Erik shrugged. “But he is. It seems to have—well, actually,” he admitted, “I don’t really know what it’s done. I expect we won’t for a while.” 

“No, indeed,” Charles murmured, drawing nearer to the cage. “Oh, Hank.” 

“Where’s Logan?” it occurred to Erik to ask. 

“Fighting Shaw, last I saw,” said Charles, focus still on Hank. Erik froze. 

“Shaw’s here?” he asked. “W—where?” 

“Out front.” Charles looked at him. “It’s quite all right—he can’t get onto the property. Jean will be fine.” 

“If you’re sure,” said Erik. Charles nodded. 

“Of course I’m sure,” he said, and, with a sorrowful glance back at Hank, added, “he should be fine, I think. Now let’s see about the others.” 

“All right.” Erik followed him up the stairs to the first floor, where they ran into Jean just starting down. 

“Hi,” she said. “You’re not dead.” 

“Nothing to worry about.” Erik nodded. “And you?” 

“Well, obviously I’m not dead,” said Jean. “Logan’s gone to bed.” 

“An excellent idea,” Charles pronounced. “For everyone, I should think. Goodness knows you need more sleep than you got, Jean.” But even as he and Erik moved past her toward the main staircase to the upper floors, Jean hesitated. 

“Is Hank…?” she asked. Charles and Erik looked at each other; Erik swallowed hard, and Charles just sighed. 

“He’s fine for now,” he told her. “You can ask him yourself in the morning, I expect.” Jean nodded. 

“Okay,” she said. “Good night.” She started up the stairs. Charles did the same, and after a moment Erik followed. They paused on the landing, looking at each other. 

“Well,” said Charles. “Good night.” 

“Good night,” Erik echoed. After a moment Charles nodded, looked down, and turned to start off toward his bedroom, in his wing of the house. For the first time, Erik rather regretted having chosen to be as far as possible from the rest of the inhabitants; but as Charles went off to bed, much though he wanted to, Erik didn’t follow. 

  


Sunlight seeped in through the tiny slits of windows at the very top of the room. The cage. Hank opened his eyes with a groan; every inch of him still felt terribly strange. 

The cure. Right. It hadn’t worked. This was a terrible morning, to be plunged straight into misery first thing. Hank sat up and rubbed at his eyes. Almost instantly he froze where he sat, drawing back his hand, holding it out to look at it. 

“Oh, no,” he said. 

His palm was human still—mostly—the skin was faintly blue, though, and rougher than it had been. But his nails were still claws, and the back of his hand—all the way up his arm—oh god, farther—was covered in soft hair, rather the bluish color of wolfsbane. Gingerly, half-unwillingly, Hank pressed his palms to his face. The hair was shorter and coarser there, but otherwise it felt just the same. 

When he screamed, it came out a howl. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, has this been sitting dormant for long. I am so, so sorry about that; this chapter (also, finals, and family issues, and moving home and immediately moving houses, and now having a full-time job for the first time in my life) really kicked my butt. That may be partly because it's the longest one yet, clocking in at around 12k words. And an awful lot happened, as far as advancing major plot points and character development, in those 12k words! So if you've hung on this long, thank you for that and I hope you're still enjoying the story and the universe. 
> 
> (I really wanted to finish this about an hour ago so I could post it while it was still technically my darling BFF Jill's birthday, but I never make the deadline I want to on these - clearly, since this is the first update in over four months - so that was an impossible dream. Anyway, happy birthday, Jill!)
> 
> Also, thank you SO MUCH to the amazing velvetcadence for the rec on the xmenfcfanfics tumblr (behind this link: http://xmenfcfanfic.tumblr.com/post/122006201279/hellfire)! Also, speaking of tumblr, I can be found on tumblr primarily at katherineannenotpryde and would actually appreciate it quite a lot if you would find me, because just recently I accidentally deleted my entire account and had to remake it and so have gone from a couple hundred followers back down to 6, so if by chance you used to follow me and are now wondering where I went... it's still there. It's just not quite what it used to be. The justkatherinetheokay url is also up again, but I haven't had time to do anything with it yet.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are vastly appreciated! They are, shall we say, the opposite of wolfsbane to me. (Too soon?)


End file.
